


Brothers and Bandages and Bad Guys, Oh My

by TozaBoma



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crimes & Criminals, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TozaBoma/pseuds/TozaBoma
Summary: A random encounter with a stolen truck kicks off an entire joint DEA investigation. Murtaugh’s blood pressure and Riggs’ vulnerability will be tested; how do you look out for a brother who isn’t even yours? Rated T for some injury detail and naughty words. Set mid season 2. Episodicly canontastic.
Relationships: Roger Murtaugh & Martin Riggs
Comments: 19
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are - finally. I started this over a year ago, and now with this COVID-19 pandemic I'm at home finishing it. Plenty more chapters to come, so bear with me.  
> Thanks for reading - it's all for you, you reading readers who read!

ONE

“On a scale of one to ten, how wrong could it go if we—”

“ _Twenty_ , Riggs. Shut up.”

A beat. Two.

“Much as I love L.A. and its exciting society, Rog - and I _do_ love L.A. and its exciting society - I am dripping here.” Pause. “It’s not a _cold_ drip as such. More like a warm, oozy drip. The kind that makes you think you’ve cut yourself pretty bad by, oh I don’t know, letting a wooden crate break your fall.”

“Will you _keep it down!_ ” Murtaugh hissed. “We are in a _warehouse_. Filled with _bad guys_. And you’re giving everyone our position and situation!”

“I have a gun. _You_ have a gun. Just leave, and I’ll make ’em follow me out front. You get back-up and I’ll get the highest score.”

“Don’t be stupid. And why would they follow _you_ anyway?”

“Because I’ll be leavin’ a red trail behind me, Rog, and you’ll be running in the other direction, all quiet-like, cos you’re a ninja.”

“I’m not a ninja.”

“Of course you are. How many times have you gotten to the refrigerator and back without Trish hearing you?”

Pause.

“You know what? I _am_ a goddamn ninja.” Silence. “Ok, Riggs. Here’s the plan. You aim for the open doors up ahead there. Make sure they see you. I’ll back up and circle around, catch them from the side when they come out after you. Cross-fire. Got it?”

“Uh-huh. Just remember to duck.”

“ _You_ remember to duck. And don’t get blood on my car when this is over.”

“Deal.”

Murtaugh put a steady foot behind him. He backed up, his gun ready in both hands, his eyes darting left and right across wooden packing crates. Half of them obscured his view of the open warehouse beyond. The other half looked heavy and bored.

Riggs lifted his left hand, found the horrendous gash in his palm dripping quite freely, and shook his head. Lifting his balled fist, he kept the elbow bent. A look back to check Murtaugh’s position made him bob low and head to his right. He snaked around the wooden crate, his handgun kept in tight to his chest, as he made the mad dash to the next wooden box.

He was five feet away before shots ricocheted off the corner right by his face. Something sharp and unforgiving slapped at his cheek. Without thinking he dropped to his knees and pulled behind the crate.

“You know,” he yelled at the top of this lungs, “this would go much easier if you just put your weapons down and gave yourselves up!”

“Screw you!”

“Well that was rude!” he called back. He got his feet under him in a crouch. “I was told people here in Lala Land were the happy, welcoming type!”

“You’re gonna die, pig!”

“I can’t argue there!” he shouted. “Everyone dies if you wait long enough!” He darted out from behind the crate toward the next one. The last ten feet were a baseball steal slide. He barely made it as he heard shots wham into the other side of the crate. He rocked into the wall of wood and then straightened himself out. He checked his gun before panting some breath back. “Ok, how about this!” He wet his lips. “You let me out from behind here, and then we just quick-draw our way outta this!”

“Yeah - ok!”

Riggs frowned. “Really?”

“Yeah. Stick your head out, _pendejo!_ I promise I’ll make it quick!”

“Not really what I meant!”

“You got family in Hell, pig? Get ready to meet them!”

Riggs closed his eyes. Images floated across the inside of his lids, half-forgotten dreams, snippets of inexplicable desires, things he knew he shouldn’t want. The pain in his hand, the unfairness of the day, the weariness in his legs; something made him run his bloodied hand through his hair. And then he stood up.

Shots began. He hardly heard them. Instead he counted the muzzle flashes, tracked the owners. He lifted his gun and calmly, steadily, let off shots starting from his left. He made his way across to his right. One by one guns fell silent until only one was left.

A _whizz-ping_ made him jump. He dropped to a crouch hastily, trying to work out where the last ten seconds of his life had gone.

“You still there, _pendejo?_ ”

He looked over the top of the crate. “Yeah I’m here. But I think you’re on your own now!”

A shot hit the crate. Another shot, then another. Riggs frowned as he waited out a volley from something that sounded quite small. Then a tell-tale _click_ made him smile.

He walked out from behind the safety shield. “You out?”

“Screw you, man!”

“You’re out.” He aimed at the walkway above. He checked distances. He found the darkest section of the gloomiest part. He squeezed the trigger.

“ _Ak! Bastardo!_ ” A man wobbled out of the darkness and fell forward. He slammed into the top of the stack of crates right at Riggs’ eye height.

He jumped back a step. “ _Hey_ Waldo! Found you,” he grinned.

The man fell to the edge of the crate and off, landing on the next pallet down. And then the next. And then the next. Finally he met the floor and lay still. He gave a long, drawn-out groan.

Feet came running. Riggs backed round the side of the obstruction and raised his gun.

Murtaugh slid into his kill zone. Riggs hissed something and bent his arm quickly to aim at the far ceiling.

“What the hell?” Murtaugh demanded. “You were supposed to lead them outside!”

“I guess I got carried away,” Riggs shrugged. “This guy right here? Man - you should have seen him. He went down like a Slinky. A slow one with a coupla loops bent, but a Slinky.”

Murtaugh walked around him to the fallen man. He placed his foot on the man’s wrist, then bent down and used the muzzle of his handgun to slide the assailant’s weapon away. “Well now. Tell us who you are and why you got a stolen truck out front.”

“Screw you!” he hissed, clearly in agony.

“You want that to be your nickname? ‘John _Screw You_ Doe’?” Riggs said innocently. “Because you do kinda say it a lot. You should try some variations, like ‘eat shit’, or ‘die in a fire’, or—”

“Not helping, Riggs,” Murtaugh snapped. He straightened up again. “Whatever your name is? You’re under arrest for shooting at police officers as well as harbouring stolen property. I have to inform you that you have the right to remain silent, that anything you say may be used against you in a court of law, that you have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to us and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand your rights as I have explained them to you?”

“Screw you,” he hissed.

Murtaugh shrugged. “Ok but I’m writing that down.”

“You think that’s a singular ‘you’ or a plural ‘you’?” Riggs asked with a cheeky grin. “Like _y’all_?”

“We don’t have a _y’all_ ,” Murtaugh said. “Only weird out-of-state people have a _y’all_.”

“ _I_ have a _y’all_.”

“Exactly.”

“You saying I’m weird?”

“Yes Riggs, I am saying you’re weird,” he smiled. “Now help me get this guy handcuffed. He weighs like three of me.”

“Big guy like you can’t… manage… one… tiny… little… whale-sized…”

Murtaugh jumped as he heard the unmistakeable sound of something heavy hitting concrete without a care in the world. He whipped his head over his shoulder to look. His eyes bulged and he turned back to the suspect - he snapped one handcuff on him and ripped his other arm out from under him.

“Ow! Eat shit!”

“Shut up!” Murtaugh cried. Slapping the other cuff on him and making sure it was secure, he finally turned to look behind him.

Riggs had fallen face-first into the ground. His gun had bounced from his palm, his left splayed out next to him - now resting it its own pool of blood.

“Son of a—.” Murtaugh got up and rolled him over onto his back. “Hey, Riggs. You didn’t say it was that bad!” He slapped at his face.

Riggs blinked somewhat blearily. “Oh hey Rog,” he said with a giddy smile. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Can you get up?”

Riggs’ head went left, then right, then back up to look at him. “Nah, I’m good down here. I’ll just wait while you do… stuff and… things and… whatevers. Come back for me in a little bit.”

Murtaugh growled something under his breath before gripping the lapel of Riggs’ checked shirt and simply ripping it down. He tore a strip off and then lifted Riggs’ left hand.

“Oh now you’ve done it,” Riggs said a little drowsily. “Trish bought me this shirt.”

“Bull _shit_ ,” he snapped. “You’re just saying that to mess with me.”

“Ask her.”

“I will _not_. You will shut the hell up while I stop the bleeding - _like you should have done already_ \- and then I’ll go back to the car and radio for an ambulance.”

“Ngaw, thanks Rog. Never knew you cared.”

“The ambulance is for the suspect,” he snapped. “He’s bleeding from a bullet wound to his arm.”

“Flesh wound,” Riggs tutted.

“You better hope so!” He yanked the cloth tight around Riggs’ palm, causing a _squelch_ noise he knew he’d remember much more clearly the next time he tried to sleep. He got up and walked to the front of the warehouse, and beyond it, his car.

ooOoo

“And the next time you decide to just walk into a warehouse with nothing but your badges and guns, you’d better come out again with more than just one witness!” Captain Avery hurled. “There were seven people in there we could have arrested and questioned! Seven! And we ended up with one!”

Murtaugh opened his mouth.

“Don’t!” Avery warned. “Where is Riggs anyway? I assume he did most of the shooting?”

“He was pinned down, Captain,” Murtaugh said. His hands came up in a calming gesture as he sat forward in the chair. “He was trapped behind packing cases because he volunteered to draw fire while I circled the building to catch the perps as they attempted to leave.”

“And why would they attempt to leave?” Avery asked, rubbing his forehead in weariness.

“Well Riggs was going to run for the front door and I’d be out waiting for them to follow him. Cross-fire, you know.”

“Cross-fire?” Avery asked. “You do realise that cross-fire needs people to be shooting at angles, preferably from two different sides?”

“Riggs had a gun and I’m pretty sure he’d—”

“Where is he?” he asked, wholly resigned.

“Hospital,” Murtaugh said. “He - uh - cut his hand. Falling on a crate. From a - from a great height.”

“Dare I ask?”

“He thought it would be a quiet way into the warehouse, so we could surprise the perps and arrest them.”

“And he cut his hand. Like… cut his hand,” Avery said flatly. “And that warranted a trip to the hospital instead of here? Normally he walks it off.”

“He couldn’t walk this one off - he passed out from blood loss.”

“He passed—.” Avery put his hands to his face, planted his elbows in his desk, and let out a long, tortured sigh. “And you didn’t think it was a good idea to stop him bleeding before it got to that stage?”

“We got separated,” Murtaugh protested. “I didn’t know how bad it was until he face-planted right behind me. You know he was never going to tell me he’d sprung a Titanic-sized leak.”

Avery let his hands drop. “Ok, fine. I’ve heard enough. Get it into a report and then… find him. Feed him, hose him down and include soap, drop him on a mattress overnight and then you make sure the two of you report in here to me first thing tomorrow. Understood?”

“Yep - got it,” he nodded and stood up. He turned to the door but then backed up one. “Oh.”

“What now?” Avery groaned.

The door opened and a smart jacket with black jeans looked in. “Captain? Captain Avery?”

Avery looked up. “Guilty as charged. And you are?”

A woman, short and stocky, came into the office carrying a folded piece of paper. “I’m with the DEA. We need to talk about the warehouse today.”

Avery sat back, waving a hand at a chair. “Of course we do,” he said, biting back the resentment. “Please, take a seat. What do we call you?”

She flicked up the hem of her jacket to show off her badge. “Agent Emily Wabash, DEA.” She came forward and proffered the paper.

He took it slowly, unfolding it as she put her hands behind her back and went silent and still. Avery’s eyes scanned the document before he looked at Murtaugh. “Roger, can you give us the room please?”

“Now?” Murtaugh asked. “Is this about this morning?”

“The room,” Avery said pleasantly, a forced smile covering his face. “Please.”

Murtaugh looked at Wabash for a long moment. She didn’t move, her eyes fixed on the wall over Avery’s head. “Sure, Cap. Don’t want to upset the DEA, now do we?” He walked out and closed the door carefully behind him.

Avery again motioned to the chair. “Would you sit? This might take some time.”

“No, it won’t,” she said tonelessly. “Like the letter says, I’m not here to take this case from you. But I have information that could help you due to the fact that we have an unrelated case going on; some of the names are the same. We could collaborate.” She cleared her throat and turned her head to look at him finally. “Your two officers arrested someone earlier. I need to speak to that man.”

“News travels fast,” Avery said. “Got a wire on our dispatch, Agent Wabash?”

“On the stolen truck, Captain,” she said. “Look… we do not want the truck or the people in it. All we want is a few names from the suspect you arrested. I’ll give you what we know, and in exchange, I’d like you to tell me what the suspect tells you.”

Avery sat back. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” she nodded.

“You’re not pulling ranks, taking him from us, interrogating him without us being in on it?”

“No,” she said, somewhat surprised. “We don’t have time. We’re busy with… other things.” She paused, her head tilted as if trying to hear something very very quiet. She waited. Then she frowned. “Do we have an agreement?”

Avery took a deep breath. “You want to know what we find out from this guy… and you’ll tell us what you know about _him_. That’s really it?”

“Are you having difficulty with the premise or the execution?” she asked, puzzled.

“The offer. The DEA don’t normally come in with such… manners.”

“I have been told I’m not normal.”

He cleared his throat rather than risk a reply. Instead he got up. “Yes, we have an agreement. Feel free to work with the two officers who made the arrest this morning.”

“That would be officers Murtaugh and Riggs?”

“Yes. Roger Murtaugh was just here. Riggs is apparently in the hospital.”

“Is it serious?”

“No.”

“Good. Then he can get back to work.” She turned to the door. “That’s Murtaugh?” she asked, pointing through the barrier.

“Yes.”

“Then thank you for making this simple, Captain Avery.” She went to the door and out.

Avery sat back down. He thought for a long moment. Then he shook his head and looked back at the order in his hand. “It must be Tuesday.”

ooOoo

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Detective Martin Riggs.”

The nurse looked up from her counter and consequent booking-in computer. “He’s in the out-patient clinic,” she said with a smile. “Down the corridor and second on the left. Go on in.”

“Thank you.” Agent Wabash took off down the hallway, then turned a smart left. “Ah. Detective Riggs?” she called.

Riggs looked over and saw a woman stalking toward him. Her long dark hair had been bullied into a pony tail, which swung with intent as she neared him. “Have we met?”

“No. I’m Agent Emily Wabash, with the DEA.”

“That’s nice. Have fun with that,” he said, his face one of pleasantness caused by protest rather than manners.

She took in his weary slump on the gurney, the fact that a torn checked shirt was lying on the green sheets next to him, and the almost-dry blood smears on his olive t-shirt. The male nurse next to him was finishing off the stitching of his left palm. “You shot six suspects this morning at the warehouse. Did you run out of ammo or did you _plan_ to arrest the last one?” she asked.

“Texans don’t run out of ammo,” he said with a wide, overly polite smile.

Her head tilted and she considered him for a long moment. He cleared his throat and looked deliberately at his hand.

The nurse applied a crisp, white bandage around Riggs’ left palm. He secured it and straightened up. “There you go. You can leave - keep that dry. Come back in a few days and we’ll check it and redress it for you.”

“That’s ok Doc - I got experience,” Riggs said, pushing himself to slide off the gurney to his feet. He picked up what was left of his shirt and ran his right hand through his hair. He began to walk off.

Wabash turned to the nurse, who was collecting up his tools. “How bad is it?” she asked quietly.

“It’s a vicious cut, but that’s all it is,” he said. “It’s got stitches in it but he did lose a bit of blood. Normally that wouldn’t be a problem but when it happened he seemed to be operating on more alcohol in his blood than acceptable, so that didn’t help. He’s signed off for three days.”

She nodded her thanks and went after Riggs. He was already halfway down the stairs before she managed to catch up with him. “Detective Riggs,” she called.

“That’s me.”

“I’ve already spoken to Captain Avery - I’m to collaborate with you and Detective Murtaugh on this case.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see how long that lasts,” he said cheerfully.

Together they walked out of the building. “I’ll give you a lift; I’m parked around back,” she said.

“I was kinda brought in, but I can still walk.”

He carried on walking, and while she paused, she did not let him leave her behind as he made it round the corner of the building to the overflow car park, presumably to cut through to the road.

“Please stop,” she said.

His steps slowed and then he hesitated, considering her quiet tone. He turned slowly. “What?”

“You killed six suspects today.”

“And? They were tryin’ to kill me and my partner.”

“But you arrested one. I need to know what he tells you.”

“What, no arguments about jurisdiction, who gets what credit? No pissing contents?” he asked.

“If it comes down to a pissing contest I believe you would win. You are more ably equipped and have had more practice,” she said simply.

His mouth opened. It worked for a second. Then it closed. He put his hands on his hips but it caused him to drop his shirt. He glanced at it but pretended it was unimportant. “What’s this about?”

She walked over to him. “The DEA has a parallel case running and I know information about your suspect in custody. If you tell me what he says under your interrogation, I will share my information with you.”

His head sloped to one side and he studied her. “Why you being so helpful?”

“Helpful?” she asked, confused. “I am offering a trade, Detective. I don’t expect you to give me anything for free, and I do not expect you to ask me to give _you_ anything for free.” She paused. “It’s a simple concept. What’s the problem?”

He frowned, glaring at her. Then he pulled his hair out of his face and continued to glare.

“A _shkatze’_ face,” she said slowly. “Oh; I have upset you. …Then I’m sorry.”

His mouth flapped again. Then he took a step back. “Ok, fine,” he said. “You can help us. We’ll do a deal, like you said.” He bent down to retrieve his shirt but then stumbled, a hand to his head.

She grabbed his shoulder as her other hand whisked up his fallen shirt. She pushed him upright. “Are you ok?”

“I’m always ok,” he managed, but he appeared a little bleary.

“I will give you a lift to your home address.”

“I can walk.”

“You will accept my help; it is easier that way.”

He paused in confusion. “Oh.”

Then he let himself be walked toward the black sedan parked thirty feet away.

ooOoo

Murtaugh carefully lifted the white wrapper from the fridge and carried it toward the stove as if it were made of gold.

Trish’s voice came careening round the corner. “I see you and that bacon!”

He froze. “You see me… making Riana breakfast!” he called back.

Her head appeared round the doorjamb to the kitchen. “Rog, she left half an hour ago.”

He sagged. “Why do you assume this is for me?”

“Because there’s no-one else here,” she grinned, walking round the doorway, and the counter, to stop behind him. She reached past his side to rescue the waxed wrapper full of raw meat.

A new voice surprised them both: “Hey! Am I interruptin’ something? I can come back.”

“Ah, see!” Murtaugh grinned. He paused to look over at his partner, who was hanging onto the patio door handle. Murtaugh smiled at his wife. “You thought this bacon was for me. I was just getting it out ready cos I knew Riggs was about to crash the place and he’s always hungry.” He looked back at him. “Right?”

“Ah… yeah. Sure,” Riggs shrugged amiably.

Trish giggled. “Roger, make Martin some breakfast. And then get to work.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grinned.

“ _Only_ Martin, you hear me?” she said sternly.

“Yes ma’am,” he nodded.

She turned to look at the man still half in and half out of the entrance. “Well come in, then. Get some coffee. Wait for Rog to make you some bacon.”

“Uh - ok,” he said breezily. He sailed in but Trish suddenly blocked his way.

“Martin - what _did_ you do to your hand?” she asked, her eyes on the bandage.

“Oh - this? I - uh - cut it. On a box.”

“A box?” she asked. “Hmm.”

“You should see the box,” Murtaugh said over his shoulder.

Trish looked Riggs up and down, found him the same level of dishevelled as normal, and shrugged it off. She went to the door.

Riggs plonked himself at the counter. He picked up an empty white mug from the tree-shaped cup hanger in front of him. “What, do I got to get breakfast myself? Where’s the service in this diner?”

Roger pointed at him. “You wait. You,” he said, looking at Trish, “can get to work now.”

“I’m going,” she smiled. “Bye Martin!”

“Bye Trish!” he called, waving a hand completely unnecessarily over his head.

Murtaugh turned to the stove again and opened up the wax wrapper. “So did the hosing-down facilities on the beach fail you again or do you seriously only have one shirt?”

“You mean other than the one Trish bought me? The one you literally tore strips off?”

Murtaugh rolled his eyes as he fetched a frying pan out of a low cupboard. He turned on the electric hob and set the pan down. “The one you are never going to tell Trish about, unless you want a fresh murder on your hands?”

Riggs smiled. “That’s the one.”

Murtaugh dropped strips of bacon into the frying pan, picking up a spatula and moving them around.

“Hey - don’t poke it,” Riggs protested.

“My bacon, Riggs - I do what I want with it.”

“Fine. But don’t distress it.”

“Distress it?” He glanced at him over his shoulder. “You been reading books again?”

“Yeah. Now I’ve read _two_ more than you.”

“Did your brain catch fire?”

“That’s still only three books in total, Rog.”

“Aaaaah!” Murtaugh gushed, pointing at him. “Good one.”

“Thank you.” He paused. “Hey… You spoken to that DEA agent yet?”

“Wabash? She said hello yesterday, then left to find you at the hospital.” He turned the bacon. “I take it she found you?”

“Yeah. She forced me into a lift to the beach.”

Murtaugh grinned. “Well what do you know, a woman you couldn’t turn down. What did she say, ‘ _take me back to your place, Officer - I don’t mind if it looks like a bomb site_ ’?”

“No - she gave _me_ a lift. My truck was still at my trailer.”

Murtaugh chuckled. “She forced _you_ into letting _her_ give _you_ a ride home? Mmm-hmm,” he nodded. “And I suppose she just left you there?”

“She came in and picked up a load of empties - said she was takin’ them to be recycled.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I just—. She’s weird, ok? I can’t work her out.”

“Is she nice to you and you can’t work out why? Maybe she likes your moustache,” Murtaugh teased.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I know, it’s madness, right? _No-one_ likes your moustache.”

“Not that - what you’re getting at.”

“You don’t think it’s possible she likes you?”

“You don’t think it’s possible she just wants to work? _And_ , lest we forget, she’s trying to get info out of our suspect by playing nice.”

“That’s it - you’ve cracked it,” Murtaugh nodded. A shrill bleeping started up somewhere dark and secretive, making him pause. “Is that you?”

“Well technically it’s my cellphone, but—”

“1987 called - it wants its ringtone back,” Murtaugh said, a smug smile at his own humour on his face.

Riggs ignored him to pull the phone out of the deepest recesses of his jeans. “Yeah’ello.” He paused. “How’d you get this number? Well what do you—. Oh. What, like now? Cos Murtaugh is making me bacon.” He listened. “But _bacon_.” He opened his mouth again but stopped short. Then he pulled the phone back and looked at it in surprise. “Wow.”

“Who was that?” Murtaugh asked.

“Wabash.”

“Wabash? As in, the-DEA-agent-who-maybe-likes-you Wabash?”

“As in the-DEA-agent-who’s-waiting-for-us-to-question-our-suspect Wabash, yes,” Riggs said.

Murtaugh’s teasing smile faded. “Well then. I guess this bacon is going to waste, and we’re going to interrogate the guy you shot in the arm.”

Riggs got up smartly, his hand swerving over Murtaugh’s shoulder. “I could just, like, take the mostly cooked stuff—”

“Don’t be disgusting.” He slapped his hand away.

“Just a bit—”

“Get out!”

But Riggs’ fingers snagged something hot and greasy as he was pushed back. “Ha!” he cried in victory. “Ow! Hot - hot - hot!” He stuffed it in his mouth.

“What are you, three? C’mon, let’s go!”

“Grumpy bastard.”

“Go!”


	2. Chapter 2

Murtaugh carried the coffee through the door to the interview room. He pulled the chair out and sat across the table from a man in handcuffs.

“Hi,” he said brightly. “Detective Murtaugh. You may remember me from the warehouse. When you - y’know - tried to shoot me.”

The man scoffed. “Whatever.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Behind the one-way mirror, Riggs folded his arms. He watched Murtaugh and the hand-cuffed man for all of thirty seconds before he cast around for something to sit on. The door opened behind him and Wabash walked in.

“Detective,” she said.

Riggs nodded. “Agent.”

She stood next to him, her arms coming up to fold. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“What?”

“Sleep, Detective.” She turned to look at him. “Did you get any?”

His mouth opened. His head listed sharply in indecision as his face radiated the same bemused confusion as a Rottweiler confronted with the most untoyest toy it had ever seen.

“Your inability to put a sentence together suggests not.” She turned back to the window.

He closed his mouth and made himself pay attention to Murtaugh and the man across from him.

“So tell me about the truck,” Murtaugh was saying.

“What’s it to you?” the man shot back.

Outside, Wabash frowned. “Don’t be so combative.”

“I’m sorry - why are you here again?” Riggs managed.

She didn’t look at him. “To hear what he has to say.”

“Uh-huh.” He looked back at the window.

“You know,” Murtaugh said, “I heard you got the truck from a bunch of people who aren’t going to be very happy when they realise that you let the truck get impounded.”

“Yeah? I’m happy for you,” the man said.

Riggs glanced at Wabash. “You could read our reports and get everything from there. Hell, you could call Avery and get it all from him. Why are you here?”

“I need to see the suspect in person,” Wabash said. “Now shush.”

“Did you just shush me?”

“Yes, Detective, I shushed you. Be quiet.”

His mouth pursed itself closed. Then he ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed at the back of his head. “I know why you’re really here.”

Behind the glass, Murtaugh leant forward in his chair. “So why don’t we let everyone know you’re in the police station. I mean, I’m sure someone needs to know that Danny Ortiguez is here in custody, right? With a truck, and everything? Talking to the cops right now?”

“Of course you know,” Wabash said. “It’s not a secret, I’ve told you about three times.”

“You’re here for the truck,” Riggs went on, “but you think we can’t get anything from Ortiguez so you’re watching just in case.”

“First-hand witnessing, impressions, are invaluable,” she said. She looked at him. “Wouldn’t you rather be present when someone was talking to a suspect you believed to be guilty in a case you were working on?”

He looked at her, but she was again staring through the window.

“No-one’s going to believe you,” Ortiguez protested. “Do whatever, man. No-one listens to cops anyhow.”

“So if I tell a few of our informants to spread the word that you’re in here and talking to me, you won’t mind one bit, will you?” Murtaugh beamed. “Cool. I’ll be right back.” He got up and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Riggs appraised the man in the room. Abruptly the observation room door opened. “Well he ain’t talking,” Riggs said.

“At least not yet,” Murtaugh sighed. He stopped as he caught sight of Wabash. “Uh… hello? Can we help you?”

“You already are, Detective,” she said. “Thank you for letting me observe.”

“Oh, well…” Murtaugh drew himself up with a proud smile. “That’s what we do, Agent Wabash - we like to _share_ , and _help_ our law enforcement sisters where we can.”

“Rog - she’s only saying that to make you like her,” Riggs said.

Murtaugh’s face fell. “Just give us time and we’ll get Mr Danny Ortiguez to sing.”

“Can it be soon?” she asked carefully. “Like… today?”

Riggs looked from her to Murtaugh and back again. “I’m sorry, are we on a time limit?”

“I cannot say,” she said.

Riggs squeezed through them politely to get to the door. “Give me five.” He opened it up and disappeared.

Murtaugh and Wabash looked at each other - just looked. Then Murtaugh hurried out and into the interview room with Wabash close behind him.

Riggs had already dropped into the single vacant chair. He propped his ankle and therefore huge boot on the corner of the table and then crossed it with his other ankle. He settled back in the chair, his hands laced in his lap. “So, Danny,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “We stole your truck!”

“What?” Ortiguez managed. He pulled his hands back as far as they would go with the chain hooked to the table top.

“Your truck. Your _stolen_ truck. We stole it,” Riggs said, sounding extremely self-satisfied.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he tutted.

“You don’t need it back? Ok,” Riggs said.

“Riggs, we didn’t steal his truck,” Murtaugh put in from behind him. “ _He_ stole the truck.”

“Yeah but see - he stole the truck first,” Riggs said, his index finger going into the air, “and then we stole it off _him_ ,” he added, his finger describing an arc.

“Officers don’t steal,” Wabash said.

Riggs’ head tilted back to afford him a look at the ceiling. “Does that make me a good guy or bad guy? If good guys steal from bad guys are they good or bad?”

“Well stealing is still bad,” Murtaugh said.

“But what if I’m stealing it back?” Riggs asked.

“Can you steal from someone who doesn’t own it?”

“Well possession is nine tenths of the law.”

Murtaugh frowned. “So what you’re saying is—”

“ _Detectives,_ stop,” Wabash said curtly. “Mr Ortiguez, please co-operate.”

“I didn’t steal no truck,” he snapped.

Riggs pointed at him with a childish grin. “So you _did_ steal _a_ truck.”

“I just said I didn’t!” Ortiguez cried.

“No, you said you _didn’t_ steal _no_ truck - so you must have stolen _a_ truck,” he shot back.

“ _Yes!_ Wait - what are you talking about?” Ortiguez gasped, lost.

“Thanks, man - we’ll get paperwork drawn up for grand theft auto,” Riggs said. “Rog - can we go now?”

“Hold up a minute,” Murtaugh said, his hands out in a plea for the entire world to come to a stop. “What just happened?”

“That’s just - just words, man! Like a figure of speech!” Ortiguez cried.

“No,” Riggs said, suddenly all business. “You ‘lifted a vehicle’ - _that’s_ a figure of speech. ‘I got a tonne of free pizza’ - _that’s_ a figure of speech. ‘I didn’t steal no truck’ - _that’s_ admission that you took one truck. At least that’s how the judge will see it.”

“You’re lying, man!” Ortiguez hurled.

“That’s thin, Riggs,” Murtaugh sighed. “It’s thin and you know it.”

“Thin is a hoagie without the bread,” Riggs said, sweeping his ankles off the table and getting to his feet. “Thanks Danny - we’ll go get the papers.”

“No!” Ortiguez urged. “You take the truck and - and - and she dies!”

All three enforcement officers froze.

Wabash moved first. She snaked around Riggs and put her hands flat to the table to peer into his face. “Who does, Mr Ortiguez? And be _very careful_ with your words.”

“She - she…” He wavered under her fierce gaze. He sat back abruptly. “I can’t.”

“Oh I think you _can_ ,” Riggs snapped. He stalked around the desk and reached for him.

Wabash was quicker; she shoulder-rammed him just enough to knock him off his feet. He caught his balance by slapping a hand into the wall behind Ortiguez.

Murtaugh came round the other side of the table, a hand between Riggs and the suspect. “Let’s go get coffee, huh?” he asked amiably. “Wabash here will get what we all want.”

Riggs eyed him, and for a horrible second, Murtaugh wasn’t sure he’d stand down. But suddenly he did. “Ok,” he shrugged. He walked straight round everyone and the desk to the door. Murtaugh followed but then stopped as Riggs turned back to pin Ortiguez with a look that could have melted the wall behind him if he’d ducked. “You,” he said pleasantly, but the quiet tone made Ortiguez’s skin crawl, “will do exactly what the nice lady tells you.”

Murtaugh put his hand out and pushed Riggs’ shoulder round as he opened the door. Then he shoved and the two of them were in the corridor. Murtaugh closed the door behind them.

“What was all that about?” he hissed quietly.

Riggs didn’t meet his eyes. He turned and walked away.

Murtaugh’s head sagged back on his neck and he appraised the ceiling tiles. Then he sighed, straightened up, and went after his partner.

ooOoo

Murtaugh, leaning on the wall next to the coffee machine, felt a familiar shake in his pocket and fished out his phone. He put it to his ear. “Hey.”

Riggs was appraising the door, glowering in a way that made Murtaugh lose concentration.

“Sorry - what?” he said quickly. “No I was listening - it’s just that Riggs has that look on his face that means someone’s leaving here in an ambulance.” He paused. “Oh. Uh… ok.” He pulled the phone back and tapped at the screen. “Hey,” he said, nudging Riggs’ arm. “Here. Say hi.”

Riggs didn’t take the phone but he did look at the screen. A high-definition picture of Trish wearing one of her trademark sunny smiles greeted him. Then he realised he was on speakerphone. “Uh… hey Trish.”

“Martin, hi,” came her sunny voice. “So you and Roger will be home early for dinner tonight, right?”

“Uh - what?”

“Dinner,” she said clearly. “That thing where you arrive at our house, eat everything we give you without even checking what it is, and then tell our daughter funny stories?”

“Oh that,” he said, only half listening. His gaze was still on the far door. “Yeah, ok.”

“Tonight, Martin.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And wear your nice shirt.”

“My nice shirt?” Riggs asked. “Well I would, if Roger hadn’t—”

“Ho now, wait a minute,” Murtaugh interrupted. Riggs looked up at him, his eyes narrowed, his mouth bending into a wide, crafty grin.

“If Roger hadn’t what?” was Trish’s response.

“If Roger, being a good friend and all-around cool guy, hadn’t bought him _another_ new one,” Murtaugh said slowly.

“You got him a new shirt? When?” Trish asked.

“Uh - this morning,” Murtaugh said quickly.

“Yeah, Trish - you know how he gets when he feels someone beat him to something,” Riggs said maliciously.

Murtaugh pointed a finger at him in warning. Riggs just grinned.

“Ok then,” Trish said, oblivious. “Dinner - in your _new_ -new shirt.”

“Alrighty then,” Riggs grinned.

“Take care of him for me, Martin. And I’ll see you later, Rog.”

“I’ll see you later, baby. Gotta go,” Murtaugh said. He tapped the screen quickly, then looked daggers at his partner. “A new- _new_ shirt. You go out and get your own damn shirt - and tell her I got it.”

“I could not lie to a good lady like Trish,” Riggs blustered. “You know she scares me.”

“Talking of women who scare you,” Murtaugh said, his grin wide, “here we go.”

Riggs turned to see Wabash exiting the corridor from the interview room, her face actually less than threatening. He turned back to Murtaugh with a decidedly annoyed expression but Wabash was already behind him.

“Are you two busy this afternoon?” she asked.

Riggs wheeled, his hands on his hips, as if surprised she were there. “Oh - uh - yeah. Roger’s taking me shirt shopping.” He turned to him, smoothing a hand down his current shirt. “I’m thinking something in dark blue, with maybe a collar and like buttons down the front - you know what I like,” he winked.

Murtaugh heaved a fist into his shoulder. “Just stop your mouth flapping for a second.” He looked at Wabash. “You need some help? We can help.”

“Thank you,” she said, before checking a piece of paper in her hand, then walking off.

Murtaugh gave a smug smile. “Hmm.”

“You just volunteered us to _help_ that woman,” Riggs said.

“Yeah. I did,” he said as he moved to walk off.

Riggs followed him. “Why?”

“Because she hasn’t looked at me once today. This is all for you, man.”

Riggs stopped short and let Murtaugh follow the DEA agent. His eyes went around the room to check for people watching. Finding himself the centre of attention, he pasted on a smile and made himself catch up to them.

ooOoo

Avery looked up as Wabash knocked on his door. “Ah, Agent,” he said, waving her in. “Twice in one day. I hope we’re not moving too slowly for you.”

“No,” she said tonelessly.

“Well that works for me. What is it?” he asked. Murtaugh and Riggs appeared in the doorway behind her. “And what does it have to do with those two?”

“I’d like to borrow them, with your permission,” she said. “I don’t have jurisdiction here and these two _do_ , and they have a documented history of getting things that others cannot.”

Avery leant back in his chair. “Borrow them for what?”

She placed a piece of paper in front of him. “This. After extensive and rather repetitive questioning, Danny Ortiguez has given us the identity of the ‘she’ that he said would die if we took his truck.”

“And that person is?” Avery asked.

“He has a seven-year-old daughter, and another gang have her.”

“What?” Murtaugh asked. “Danny the truck thief has a daughter being held by _another_ gang?”

“That sounds like the plot of a bad TV show,” Riggs grumped, walking behind them and parking the side of his arse on the backrest of a chair.

“You mean a _good_ TV show,” Murtaugh said. “A couple of handsome leads, lots of explosions and action, and yet with its own kind of family theme. I saw a movie franchise like that once.”

“We need to rescue this girl, never mind who she belongs to,” she said.

“I agree,” Avery said. “You two - give her whatever she needs.”

Murtaugh turned and made very large, very cow eyes at Riggs. He simply levelled his best, hollowest stare at him in retaliation. Murtaugh turned back to Avery. “So where do we start?”

“Simple,” Wabash said. “Ortiguez told us everything we need to make a fake drop to get her back.”

“A fake drop?” Murtaugh asked. “Whoa back up - what exactly did he tell you?”

Wabash turned to appraise all three men. “He was supposed to hijack a shipment and get it to a rival gang. At the drop they’d hand him back his own daughter.”

“And this drop is cocaine?” Avery hazarded.

She shook her head. “iPhones.”

“You’re yanking my chain,” Riggs said. “All this for cellphones?”

“These are iPhone 11s,” she said.

Murtaugh whistled. “Seriously?”

“One thousand of them - stolen, but with clean IMEIs, the whole deal,” she said.

“So… cellphones,” Riggs stated, distinctly unimpressed.

“ _Not_ cellphones,” Wabash said.

“Does it make calls and send messages?” Riggs said pointedly.

“Yeah,” Avery shrugged.

“Then it’s a cellphone.” He pushed himself up to stand. “Where is this drop?”

ooOoo

Wabash adjusted the binoculars to see the target van more clearly. The grey paint job did not reflect the street light so much as absorb it until it was dull and unremarkable. “You were agitated when Ortiguez mentioned a female in danger. Why?” she asked, pre-occupied.

Riggs, his head back on the passenger seat of her car, his arms folded, and his entire demeanour one of a person who has clearly given up on pretence, opened his eyes. “What?”

“Ortiguez said there was a ‘she’ in danger and you were going to shake information out of him.” She let the binoculars drop to look at him. “Why?”

“Oh you know,” he said amiably, still studying the roof lining of the car, “just hate the paperwork that comes with dead bodies.”

“I do not believe you,” she said.

“What about you?” he asked. Now he looked at her. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing some DEA agentin’ to entrap some drug lord or something? Why are you making this girl your business?”

“She’s part of my ‘DEA agenting’,” she said. “We get her back safely, and we have something on Ortiguez. He talks, we get evidence, and then people get arrested.”

“Uh-huh.” He squinted out of the window, trying to scrutinise the van under the street lights. “Why do these people always pick like midnight to do their drops?”

“The cover of darkness and the fact that the majority of people are asleep. Do they not teach this in the police academy?”

“Well, yeah, but—.” He huffed. “I was being facetious.”

“Ah. I see.” She watched for bit longer. “Would you rather be asleep?”

“I don’t sleep.”

“That’s a physical impossibility,” she said flatly.

“No, what I meant was—.” He looked at her, then glanced at the dashboard before turning to her. “You’re really hard to talk to.”

“You are not. You are a good communicator; you express yourself reasonably well and your listening skills are excellent - probably something to do with your police background. However, you rely on colloquialisms that confuse people.”

His mouth worked for a whole ten seconds. “You mean they confuse _you_.”

“I am also a person, so yes.”

“Well yeah, obviously you are.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“What?”

She let the binoculars drop to her lap to look at him. “What time did you last eat something?”

“Oh, uh…”

“I brought food.”

“Uh… right.”

She reached between the front seats to grab a plastic bag. She hauled it round and offered it to him. “Pick something. Eat it.”

He blinked and took the bag dumbly. She sat round and picked up her binoculars again.

Riggs opened the bag and fished around. “Sandwiches? You brought a sandwich?”

“They are sealed and will keep for the entire watch, if we need them to. Did you not bring food?” she asked, concerned. “That is not very good planning, Detective.”

“I was winging it,” he managed. He reached into the bag, read the ingredients on the packaged 6-inch sub, and dropped it back into the bag. “Anyway, we won’t be here all night.”

The binoculars dropped a shade as she considered this. “True.”

Something buzzed and he stuck his hand in his jeans pocket, squirming around until he pulled out his phone. He read the screen. “Cruz says there’s a van coming through the crossroad lights back there - they’ll be here in under a minute if this is their destination.”

“It could be them - they said midnight, and it’s a few minutes after.”

“Yup.” He put the phone on the dashboard and tossed the bag into the back seat. He retrieved his rifle from where it was standing up in the footwell and checked it was loaded and ready. “Better than a sandwich.”

“That depends on the sandwich,” she commented.

He grabbed his phone again and pushed at the most recently called number. It rang and he put it on speaker. The line clicked. “You ready, Rog?” he asked.

“Why am I in this van and not you?” was the angry reply. “You’re supposed to be the sniper - why ain’t you in here ready to blow some gang fool’s head off?”

“How am I supposed to get a good bead on him from close up?” Riggs countered. “Now get ready - it could be less than a minute. How’s Danny doing?”

“Oh Danny is fine, thanks for asking,” he snapped.

“Stay frosty, Rog.” He tapped at the phone, successfully cutting off the tirade that was threatening to hit. He sat back.

Wabash raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She lifted the binoculars and checked again, then noticed a flash of light across the bonnet of the van. “Someone’s pulling in,” she said urgently.

Riggs’s head went toward the window next to him to watch as a second van, this one a longer wheelbase and completely black, trundled to a stop, facing the grey one. The passenger door opened slowly and a single man got out.

Ortiguez emerged from the other van, his hands out in surrender.

“Ok, he’s out,” Riggs said. His right hand grasped the door handle to open it.

“Wait,” Wabash said quickly. “They have to tell whoever they have watching the girl to let her go first.”

“Yeah, well, something tells me they’re going to check these cellphones are legit before they do that. And guess what happens when they open that truck and find it’s nothing but empty boxes and a police detective back there?”

“Wait.”

He huffed. He kept a good hold on the door handle. But he didn’t move.

Ortiguez had his arms wide now. The man from the black van walked up to him, a handgun dangling by his side. He checked Ortiguez for weapons with his free hand, then stepped back.

Riggs heard a noise and turned his head to see Wabash tapping her thumb to her phone repeatedly. “What are you doing?”

“Photographic evidence,” she said. “We need to ID this man as fast as possible.”

“Well he looks like…” He squinted. “Nah, can’t see the tatts. When we arrest him and get him back to the station, maybe Cruz will recognise his ink.”

She put the phone back in her inside jacket pocket. She checked her gun was loaded.

Riggs watched as the man and Ortiguez walked around the back of the truck to the rear doors. “Here we go,” he said, presumably to himself. He inched the door open silently and put a boot out. Wabash did the same on her side.

Ortiguez opened the rear door. It obscured everything as the man stepped closer to look.

A pause.

Another one.

“C’mon, Rog,” Riggs hissed.

The man’s feet disappeared into the back of the truck. The door closed.

Ortiguez walked around the back again, his arms out. He called to the black van still waiting.

The driver’s door opened this time and another figure got out. Dressed mostly in black with a large hood up, it waved an automatic weapon by its shoulder as it strode toward Ortiguez.

“Well well well, a lady gangster,” Riggs marvelled.

“How can you tell in that hoodie?” Wabash asked.

“Not a lot of men I know walk like that.”

“You should get out more.”

“Oh I’m getting out alright. This has gone as far as it’s going to go peacefully.”

“Riggs - wait.”

He slipped out of the car and stole to his right, against a stack of empty wooden pallets. He edged behind them, set his elbows on it comfortably, and fixed Ortiguez and then the mystery woman in the sights of his rifle.

Wabash went to her left to another stack. She was on one knee behind them, her gun resting out on top, her phone in the other hand. She looked through the car to Riggs.

He looked over.

She nodded.

He pulled the bolt slide back to ready the rifle as slowly as he could. His cheek leant into the metal and he exhaled slowly.

Wabash pulled in a deep breath.

A flash of lights and a squeal of tyres made her pause. She ducked instinctively as another van careened into the corner of the parking lot. It screeched to halt barely a foot from the black van. The side door slid open. People began to pour out.

“What the—?” Riggs managed. His head popped up to look over the top of the rifle sight.

“Is this back-up? For who?” Wabash asked.

Riggs put his eye back to the sightline. He spotted a black hooded figure turning to look over at their car - and then directly at Wabash. They raised a small automatic weapon.

“Contact fore!” he called.

She ducked.

He fired.


	3. Three

Murtaugh jerked instinctively as weapons fire hit the outside of the van. The sound of feet slapping into tarmac made him aim his gun at the open doors in front of him.

Ortiguez appeared. Murtaugh cursed and lifted his gun to point at the ceiling of the van instead.

“Let me in, man!” Ortiguez shouted as he skidded to a halt. “I already been shot once this week!”

“Get in here!” Murtaugh cried.

Ortiguez leapt into the van with one hand to his bandaged arm. He pushed through boxes to insert himself between two high stacks. —And then jumped in fear as he found a face next to him. It belonged to a tattooed gentleman who seemed a little put out that he was handcuffed to the inside of the vehicle.

“You’re dead, Danny,” the man hissed.

“I don’t know what’s happening!” Ortiguez protested. “This police just came out of nowhere and hijacked—”

“Shut up!” Murtaugh called. He yanked his phone free and dialled. He slapped it to his ear as he aimed his gun at the open doors.

OoOoo

Riggs calmly moved the rifle in a slow, steady arc. It tripped over a suspect. He inched it down and let off one shot. The man cried out as a spray of red from his hand forced him to drop his gun. Riggs moved onto the next gun, and the next.

“Yes, I’m with Riggs,” Wabash was calling down her phone. The car between them took a few shots as people aimed for her and missed. “We’re pinned down now but won’t be for long. Murtaugh and the suspect are still in the truck. It’s not clear where the driver of the gang vehicle is or what state Murtaugh’s in.”

“He’ll be fine,” Riggs called. He fired again. A female cry came over the parking lot as the hooded figure with the automatic went down, clutching its leg. “Told you,” he added. He felt his pocket buzzing. “Uh - Wabash? Give a man a hand, would you?”

She cut her call and pushed her phone in her pocket. She let off covering shots, skittering round the back of the car and up behind him. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“My pocket - cellphone.”

“Oh.” She reached in and grabbed it. She slid at the onscreen bar and put it on speaker. “Murtaugh?”

“Wabash? Where the hell is Riggs? And why do you have his cell phone?” was his immediate cry. “We’re taking heavy fire here!”

“This is called ‘moderate fire’ and I’m dealing with it,” Riggs said calmly. He let off another shot.

Wabash looked up and over the crates. “Four suspects down, only one more with a gun, right outside your passenger door,” she said quickly. “Two more possibly armed but face down by the black van. No idea who these other people are but the ones who can still move are running for their van.”

“Other people? What are you talking about?” Murtaugh spluttered.

“Another gang turned up, Rog,” Riggs said. “Sit tight.”

Something ricocheted off the pallets in front of his face. Wood flew up; Wabash jerked back. The phone dropped to the ground. Riggs swore something that turned the air blue and his head went down. The rifle pitched to one side in his hands.

Wabash leapt up and pushed at his shoulder with her left hand. Her right went to the rifle but it was already taking a well-deserved nap on its side.

“Son of a bitch,” Riggs growled.

“Are you injured?” She let the rifle rest and picked up her handgun to cover them. More enemy shots went into the wood, trying to get to them.

“Maybe,” he managed. She bolstered his lean into her but he was getting heavy. “Can’t see,” he tutted.

“What?” She grabbed his hair and pushed his head down out of danger. His forehead went into her collarbone.

“Kinda glad I can’t right now, though.”

She squeezed her hand against his head to trap him fast. “Shut up, Detective. Back-up is on its way.”

“I’m gettin’ you all wet,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Blood.”

“Be quiet.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The unmistakeable sound of sirens cut the night air; a few black and white bonnets flew round the corner and skidded to a halt between her and the two shooters still on their feet.

Suddenly uniforms were everywhere. The shooting stopped, people began shouting, and Wabash paused her gun hand to take it all in.

She got some breath back, realising suddenly that her heart was going triple-speed and she was ready to hit something or run.

“You can let go now,” Riggs said quietly. “If you want.”

Awareness of him still being there made her jump. Her hand let go of his head and instead went to his shoulder. She eased him back gently. He put both hands to his hair to rake it all back out of his face.

“Did something come off that crate and hit you?” she asked, peering at him.

“You’re good; you should be a detective,” he allowed wearily. Blood was streaming freely from his left eye. “I got you,” he said, with a rueful, almost apologetic smile.

“What?”

“Your shirt,” he said, gesturing to her front with his chin. “And - uh - what’s - uh - under it.”

She looked down to find blood smeared down her white shirt, and now rubbed across her skin between the collars. “You put hot water and soap on it and comes right off,” she shrugged.

“Officers! Everyone ok?” came a shout.

“No - officer in need of medical attention!” she called back. She got up and stood back from him. He looked around as if lost.

But a woman in an EMT uniform hurried round the pallets and crouched in front of him. She tipped his chin up. “Can you see, sir?”

“With one eye, yeah,” he allowed.

“Let me clean this up and we’ll take a proper look, ok, sir?”

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” he allowed. He turned and slumped back against the pallets, letting the blood flow down his face.

Wabash took a few steps back. Then her head came up and she searched the crowd of people. “Detective Murtaugh!” she shouted. “Has anyone seen Detective Murtaugh?”

A man shoved through the crowd and stomped over. “I’m here - and I’m fine, thanks for asking! Now where’s—.” He pointed delicately at her shirt. “You ok?”

“It’s not my blood,” she said dismissively. “Detective Riggs is with the EMTs.”

“What did he do now?” he groaned. She stepped back for him to walk around her. She looked back at him, then around at the carnage of officers, suspects, vans and guns. Letting out a small sigh, she walked into the fray to try to find some answers.

ooOoo

Ortiguez slumped in the chair, his hands cuffed to the surface. He didn’t even look up at the one-way mirror across from him.

On the other side of the glass, Avery stared at him, his arms folded and his face one of great concentration. “What a mess.”

“I believe we have three gangs to deal with now,” Wabash said quietly from next to him.

“Which reminds me,” he said with a pleasant smile. “I was going to ask your direct superior if you could help us a while longer.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah - ‘oh’.” He turned to her, his arms dropping. “Is there a reason you’re here when you’re officially on vacation?”

She studied his face for a long moment. “Yes.”

“And that reason is?”

Her mouth opened. Then it closed. She looked at Ortiguez through the glass. “It’s complicated.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.” She cast him a glance. “But thank you.”

“For what?”

“You said you were _going_ to ask my superior. But… you didn’t. Right?”

“When it became obvious she thought you were holidaying somewhere, I backed off.”

“So… thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He watched the suspect for a moment. “But you _are_ going to explain this to me at some point?”

She didn’t answer and he looked at her. She did not acknowledge his attention.

The door opened behind them. “Anything? Oh - you’re not asking her what the hell just happened?” Murtaugh asked, surprised. “Who was in that third van? And how did they know where we were? And - and - _what the hell happened_ tonight?”

“We know that Ortiguez was approached by another gang and his daughter taken,” Wabash said slowly. “They said they’d give her back for his own gang’s latest shipment. The rest we must determine on our own. We have two people in the hospital courtesy of Detective Riggs’ marksmanship so when they’re out of surgery we can ask them.”

The door opened again. “Ho - _wumf a mumf a fee?_ ” said a voice.

They all turned to see Riggs standing in the doorway, something large stuck in his mouth, a waxed paper wrapper obscuring its identity. A white patch had been applied to his left eye with rather serious-looking tape.

“What the—. How are you not dead?” Murtaugh demanded.

He took the wrapper from his mouth, swallowed whatever was blocking his ability to talk, and smiled widely at everyone. “You can’t kill me; I’m already dead.”

Murtaugh rolled his eyes. “And where’d you get food at this time of night?”

“Doughnuts, Rog - the desk sergeant has Police Food out all night,” he said innocently.

“How do I not know this?”

“She gives one to everyone,” Riggs shrugged. He paused. “Doesn’t she?”

Murtaugh and Avery looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“I had no idea,” Avery said, surprised.

“I never got a doughnut from the desk sergeant,” Murtaugh grumbled. “That’s favouritism. I’m going to have a word with her about—”

“Well you _could_ ,” Riggs said, eyeing the rest of his doughnut, “but I think her most recent words to me were ‘ _I’m three days from retirement and I don’t give a rat’s ass what this precinct’s rules are - you’re getting the last doughnut, boy, and you’re liking it_ ’.” He nodded for emphasis.

“Is this Sergeant Takeuchi?” Murtaugh asked.

“Uh - don’t know. She makes me call her Tomiko.”

Murtaugh looked at him - just looked. Then he pointed at his new patch. “How bad is the eye?”

“Oh - funny story? It’s not my eye,” Riggs smiled. “It’s the eye- _lid_. Piece of wood cut it real good though - it was pissing blood like a stuck pig.” He bit into the doughnut, sending the bright red sticky contents spilling out over the wrapper. He licked it clean and took another bite. “They stopped it leakin’ and slapped these suture and plate things on it to stop me using it - it’s gotta heal on its own, apparently. The patch is to keep it dry, that’s all.”

“Right,” Avery managed, taking in the way he stuffed the rest of the gooey red doughnut in his mouth with complete disregard for the horrific images he was putting into people’s heads.

“And you had to get the _jelly_ doughnut, right?” Murtaugh asked wearily.

“Like I said, I didn’t have a choice,” Riggs said. “So are we chasing the Chinese gang now or what?”

“Who?” Murtaugh asked.

“Ortiguez said the shipment was originally supposed to be going to another gang, right? When he ripped them off and diverted it to this new Chinese gang, I guess they got a little pissed off and went to find where they were,” he said innocently.

“How do you know this new gang is Chinese?”

Riggs felt around inside his jacket pocket. “Here.” He pulled out Wabash’s phone and offered it to her.

She took it, confused. “How did you get this?”

“I - uh - borrowed it. Hope you don’t mind,” he said gingerly. “Texted the pictures you took to Cruz. He recognised like one guy from the black van, but he also ID’d one of the people from the third gang - one of which is having reconstructive surgery on a thumb, severed courtesy of yours truly. Cruz says the guy’s a Tong.”

“Son of a bitch,” Murtaugh sighed. “So dinner’s off for the next week?”

Riggs grinned and pointed at him, the empty, balled-up wrapper now in his palm. “You owe me a shirt, Rog. Don’t forget.” He turned and left the room.

“I owe you a shirt,” Murtaugh growled under his breath. “I used your shirt to keep you alive, you ungrateful _trailer-hobbit!_ ” he called as he followed him out of the door.

“I’ll be sure to include that line when I tell Trish all about this later.”

“Don’t you dare!”

It closed behind them.

Avery looked at Wabash. He shrugged. She went out of the door, heading for the interview room, knowing he was right behind her.

ooOoo

A shrill bleating knifed the air and Riggs opened his right eye. He put a bandaged hand up and shoved his heavy shirt off his face. He made his eye check the limited amount of trailer that he could see before he let it close again. He inched the shirt back down over his face and relaxed. The noise permeated every inch of his aching head but he ignored it admirably. Eventually it stopped.

Sleep was just managing to drag him back into oblivion when something banged on the door. Hard.

“’S’no-one in!” he hurled, annoyed.

“Riggs, come on,” Murtaugh called through the door.

“Nope.”

There was the strange sound of wood being scratched, and then suddenly the door opened. “You should get a proper lock,” Murtaugh sniffed, wandering in and letting fresh air follow him. “Whoa. You know, I wish my kids could see this,” he said, turning and looking around the trailer. Empty or semi-full beer bottles, whiskey bottles, packets of potato chips and all kinds of junk food in between were littered around the place as if blown in by a sandstorm. “If they understood how low you can go, they might actually appreciate the fine house they live in.”

“Am I supposed to be offended?” came a rumble from the couch.

Murtaugh turned to see him, splayed out along the sofa in what appeared to be the one pair of jeans he owned and a weary-looking t-shirt. “I don’t care,” he asserted. “What I _do_ care about is that it’s after midday, we’ve all had rest, and other officers have been tracing these gang members for us. So let’s go find them.”

“I think I’m just gonna take a vacation day.”

Murtaugh put his hands on his hips. “Ok. You do that. I’ll get someone else to help me find this poor girl. Maybe Wabash is free - you know, she’s quite a shot. Maybe we don’t need you on this one anyway.”

He shoved the shirt off his face. “You’re a whiny bastard, do you know that?”

“Me? You’re a grumpy drunk when you’re hungover.”

“You can’t be drunk _and_ hungover, Rog.”

“Well you must be stuck somewhere in between then, cos I ain’t never seen you absolutely sober or happy to be anything but drunk.”

Riggs’ mouth opened. He paused, then blew out a huff. “I’m coming.”

“Shower first.”

“What are you, my drill sergeant?”

“I’m a police officer, and that means keeping the peace. Your t-shirt’s been humming for days and if it gets any louder I’ll have to slap a public disturbance fine on it.”

“Very funny, Rog,” he grumped.

“Thank you,” he said graciously. He stood back and looked around the trailer. “Where _is_ your shower?”

“You see that massive body of water out the front there? The one by the sand?”

Murtaugh looked at the ceiling. He counted to ten. Then he went to the open door. “You got ten minutes, Riggs. Clean yourself up. You’re still a police officer.” He paused. “And I am _not_ taking you shirt shopping looking like that.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

Riggs’ single eye watched it wobble with the impact. Then he smiled, pushed himself off the couch, and headed for the tiny yet perfectly functional shower unit hiding behind the wooden panelling next to the fridge.

ooOoo

Wabash put down the desk phone and ripped the top page from the pad of paper under her hand. She read it again, then folded it and moved to shove it in her rear jeans pocket.

Fingers brushed hers and then the paper was wrenched free.

She spun to see her assailant.

Riggs was behind her, unfolding the paper.

She snatched it back off him. “That is intel. It is not for you.”

“Ouch,” he blinked with his one good eye. “I thought it was gang stuff. Are we tracking them down yet or what?”

“We are,” she said evenly. “But I need Avery to sign off on this - and you can’t see it until he does.”

“Aw no fair - I can help,” he groaned.

“Not until Avery says you can. It’s called procedure, Detective Riggs.”

“Now you _sound_ like Rog and you’re doing that _disapproving_ face like Rog. —Wait, is that you, Roger? Did you get your hair done?” he grinned.

She frowned. “That does not make sense.”

“No really, you’re much better lookin’ like this,” he teased.

Her mouth opened, then halted as she did a double-take of his face.

“Wha—. Uh - anyway,” he said hastily, as if his boots had felt cracks in the ice under his feet. He turned and indicated the door across the room. “Avery’s office is over there.”

“I’ve already been in his office, Detective, therefore I know where it is.” She paused. “However, I must make a phone call first.”

He pointed at her with the index fingers of both hands, a sly grin covering his face. “Are you playing this at both ends?”

“I don’t understand.”

“C’mon, you know. You’re getting your boss and our boss to agree to somethin’ by saying the other said yes first. Right?”

She straightened up. “You jump to conclusions very quickly.”

“So what are they agreeing to?”

“They are not.”

“Then explain all this to me,” he said, his hands going to his hips. “We’re supposed to be on this case together, right? You wouldn’t hide anything from me and Rog, now would you?”

She looked around the open plan office. “Not out here.”

“In Avery’s office, then.”

“In half an hour,” she said. Then she turned and walked away.

Riggs ran a hand through his hair to trap it back out of his eye, then just spun to find his own desk and his chair. He landed in it heavily and swung it to face his desk.

“There you are,” came a voice. “I got us _proper_ breakfast food from the canteen.” Murtaugh stopped by his right elbow and dropped a waxed paper lump in front of him, then set down a tall paper carry-out cup.

Riggs sat back. “It’s two in the afternoon.”

“How do you even know that?” Murtaugh asked. He carried his own breakfast to the other side of the desk and sat down. “And since when have you gone by hours of the clock to determine when or what you’re supposed to eat?”

“All good points, well made,” Riggs said. He opened up the food parcel and found a hot wrap inside, crammed with bacon, a hash brown, something vaguely sausage-like and an entity that resembled scrambled egg. “You got any hot sauce?”

“On breakfast?”

“What?” he asked innocently.

Murtaugh shook his head. “No, I do not have hot sauce. Eat it. And drink your coffee.”

“Is it Irish coffee?”

“I don’t know where it comes from,” he protested. “It came out of the machine!”

“No, I mean—. Irish coffee has whiskey in it.”

Murtaugh glared at him. “No. It does not have whiskey in it. And by the way, alcohol in coffee is just wrong.”

Riggs took a massive bite out of his wrap. “For a guy doing alright despite the stereotype, you sure have a problem with accepting other cultures.”

“What stereotype?” he asked, affronted.

“Y’know… black dude in LA - with a huge, expensive house and a perfect family.”

Murtaugh studied him. “Are you messing with me?”

“What? Why would I do that?” Riggs asked with apparently genuine surprise around a full mouth. “I’m saying you’ve done really well for yourself, despite the system being built for other people.”

“That’s profiling.”

“That’s white dudes.”

“ _You’re_ a white dude.”

“Unless I been in the sun, yeah.”

“You calling them out - isn’t that like the kettle calling the pot black?” Murtaugh asked, more amused than angry.

“No - it’s that it takes one to know one,” Riggs said cheekily.

Murtaugh grinned and pointed at him. “Aaah!”

Riggs pointed back. “Aaah!” he echoed, before biting off even more food.

“So why are you at your desk? Pretending to read more paperwork?” Murtaugh asked.

“Nope. Caught Wabash hiding our next move from us. She reckons it has to go by Avery first.”

“Uh-huh. You worked out why she’s so weird yet?”

“No - but she is definitely like full-on _weird_ -weird. Talking to her is like talking to - I don’t know - a recorded messaging system or something.”

“So you’re not dating her yet?” Murtaugh teased.

“Oh c’mon Rog - don’t,” he said, his face squirming as if a bad smell had sneaked up behind him and slapped itself over his mouth and nose.

“Hey, it’s ok,” Murtaugh said, raising a hand. “You got to work through these things.”

“Screw you.”

“Come on - talk to me.”

“I do _not_ want to talk about it.”

“Take it slow, ok? You’ll get there, partner - I know you will.”

“What are you talking about?”

“So you _do_ want to talk about it?” Murtaugh grinned.

Riggs levelled a look at him that Murtaugh was pretty sure had hitherto been reserved for people who drank the last of his alcohol. “No I do not. Shut up.”

Murtaugh grinned. “Oh how the tables have turned.”

Riggs opened his mouth but paused as his eye went over Murtaugh’s shoulder to something happening behind him. He watched, then remembered there was food within striking distance and bit off another huge chunk.

Murtaugh turned slowly to follow his attention. He caught sight of Wabash on her cellphone, apparently just finishing a call as she began to walk back into the main bullpen. She pushed the phone into her jeans pocket and walked straight up to Avery’s office door. Her hand came up and knocked before she went in.

Murtaugh spun in his chair and looked at Riggs. He had a quiet, pre-occupied look on his face and Murtaugh turned to look back at the mostly frosted glass of Avery’s office. “You think she knows something we don’t?” he ventured.

“Oh I am very sure she knows a lot of things we don’t,” Riggs said.

“You done with your breakfast?”

“Let’s go say hi,” Riggs said, pushing the last of the food into his mouth before getting to his feet.

“And bring your coffee.”

“What, and undo all the good work this morning’s beer’s been doing?” Riggs scoffed, and then walked off.

Murtaugh shook his head. “You had a beer before coming down here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rog,” Riggs said over his shoulder. “I need at least two before I’m ready for life in general. Three on Sundays.”

Murtaugh stopped. He watched as his partner barrelled straight into Avery’s office without so much as a knock. Then he frowned and went in after him.

“—Well it kinda left me wondering what was so important that we couldn’t be included,” Riggs was saying. “I mean, we’re supposed to be working together on this, right?”

“Riggs, this is a private conversation between me and Agent Wabash,” Avery said. He put a hand up. “Why don’t you get some coffee and when we’re ready to break it to you, we’ll do just that.”

“What is everyone’s obsession with coffee?” Riggs protested. “It’s just brown bean water!”

“You’ve been drinking instant,” Murtaugh put in dismissively. “Captain, Wabash, we’re sorry to interrupt but we thought we were missing something important about this case we’re all working on together.”

“That’s what I said!” Riggs urged. “So tell us what’s going on.”

Avery and Wabash shared a look. “Your case, Captain,” she said. She took an elegant step back, her hands going behind her back.

Avery sighed and waved at the door. “Close that, would you Roger?”

Murtaugh closed the door and took a seat.

Riggs looked around himself and went for the other chair, but then paused with a look on his face that spoke of some acutely painful dilemma. “Uh… You want a seat?” he asked Wabash.

She looked at him and then around at the chair. “No thank you.”

“Oh.” He looked at the chair, then at her. “Uh.”

“You may sit, Detective,” she said, sounding surprised.

“But—”

“What is with you? Sit down,” Murtaugh cried.

“It’s a - thing,” Riggs said helplessly. “There’s a lady in the room and only one chair.”

“Texans,” Murtaugh sighed, rolling his eyes.

Wabash looked first at Murtaugh, then at Riggs. “A _shkatze_ face. …Then I am sorry.” She went to the chair and sat.

Riggs frowned in confusion and ran a hand through his hair, his face taking on a slight shade as he shuffled his feet.

Murtaugh cleared his throat and looked at Avery. “Captain?” he asked wearily.

Avery was still looking at Riggs as if he’d been surprised by a new breed of puppy. He shook his head and laced his hands on his desk. “Agent Wabash has a contact. She wanted to clear her plan for setting up a new meet for the daughter, until you two interrupted all that. Wabash?” he asked clearly.

She kept her eyes on Avery. “We have contacts in a few gangs around the city. We can use them to find out where the girl is without either gang interfering.”

“How?” Riggs asked.

“Leave that to me.”

“I thought you weren’t DEA-ing all over the LAPD this week,” Riggs put in politely. “That _is_ why you’ve been so nice to everyone so far, right?”

She considered him. “I cannot reveal sources, Detective, you should know that.”

“You’re going to use DEA informants to convince the gang to bring her to us,” Murtaugh said slowly. “But… that means the informant will have to be taken out of the gang and protected, and the DEA will have to give up any hope of arresting any perps.”

“However, it would be our best course for getting his daughter back alive,” she said.

“What? No,” Riggs protested. “We use the informant to arrange the meet again like the goods are still theirs, then just arrest everyone who arrives.”

“And what happens when they check the goods and find empty boxes?” she asked.

“We use real impounded goods,” he shrugged. “They don’t have to know they ain’t keeping it. We show them what they need to see, then as soon as we have the girl we come down on all of them like they don’t know what hit them.” He looked at Avery. “Right?”

“It may be better than losing everything,” he said carefully, looking at Wabash. “Can you call your informants? Get them the info?”

“Ho - wait,” Murtaugh said. “Why don’t we release Ortiguez, make it look like we got nothing from him. That way when he’s at the meet this time, they won’t know he’s working with us - and they won’t know the phones got impounded.”

Avery nodded. “I like that better. Wabash?”

“I’ll… make some calls,” she said tonelessly. She got up but paused to look at Riggs. “Thank you for the chair.”

He nodded but at no point did his head come up high enough to look her in the eye.

“Go,” Avery said. “Wait for her and then get this done.”

“Yes, Captain,” Murtaugh said. He went for the door but realised Riggs hadn’t moved. He leant back and snagged the jacket over his elbow, pulling him with him.

They were outside the door before Riggs dragged him to a stop. He looked around furtively, then closed the gap between his head and Murtaugh’s shoulder, as if looking over the top of it.

“We can’t let her do this,” he urged, his voice as low as it would go.

Murtaugh glanced around the bullpen hastily. “Why not?” he whispered.

“Because she’s exposing informants and giving up a boatload of hard work to get this done.”

“So? So what?”

“Rog - this is her case. Her _career_. What if someone told you that you had to throw away the last six months of your police life to help some other department, and you’re not even going to get an arrest out of it?”

Murtaugh blinked at him. “Well the last six months would be fine with me, if it means all the work _we’ve_ done together. A week without you would be great right about now.”

“Fine,” Riggs hissed. “I’ll do this myself.” He walked off.

“Do _what_ yourself?”

“See you later, Rog.”

“Hey!”

Riggs was already at the elevator doors, pressing the button hard. They began to open and Murtaugh looked around to see who was watching. Finding himself pretty much invisible to everyone else in the room, he dashed after Riggs and just about got his foot in the door as they tried to close.

He forced them back open and stepped in. He glared at Riggs. “This is not a good idea.”

“C’mon, Rog,” he said with a smile. “You don’t even know what ‘this’ is yet.”

“I don’t _need_ to know.”

“Everything’s going to be _fine_.”

Murtaugh pointed at him in warning.

The doors closed.


	4. Four

Ortiguez opened the door cautiously, taking a slow step inside and waiting for a shot.

Nothing.

He opened his eyes and took another step - then another. He let the door close behind him as he walked toward the office in the corner of the warehouse. Ducking into the small partitioned room, he went straight to the large diary open on the desk.

“There you are,” said a voice.

He spun quickly - then relaxed. “Mia! You ok?” he demanded. “I thought they had you, man - I mean I thought they _had_ you. I thought you were _dead meat_ if I didn’t pull this off!”

Mia Santiago watched him from her comfortable lean against the wall, her arms folded. “Dumbass,” she scoffed. “You think they knew who to watch when it went South?”

He grinned, advancing on her. He threw his arms round and they hugged for a gold medal. Finally she eased him back and they looked at each other.

“I shoulda known better,” he said. “So what’s up?”

“What’s _up?_ ” she demanded. “Man, I thought the cops got _you_. The others - they found everyone else dead, other dudes in the hospital watched by cops… but those _pendejos_ in that Tong gang grabbed me and Petey. When you was trying to do the deal last night anyway, we got out. Petey got hit in the cross-fire - he’s with our friend the back-street doctor right now. I been keeping my head real low in case anyone vaguely South East Asian-looking notices me. What gives?”

Ortiguez walked off to the side of the desk. She followed, then went around the other side as if to sit, but instead she waited. He sighed, long and hard. “It was close, Mia. _Real_ close. I got shot, but… I’m ok now.”

“You got shot?” she gasped. “Who stitched you up?”

“It’s all taken care of,” he managed. “But look - we gotta get these phones out, man. We gotta do this deal.”

“Well I’ll help you - no-one else is here cos half of them were arrested. It’s just you and me till the boss gets back from New York.”

“Yeah - and anyone know what she’s _doing_ in New York?”

“I do not want to know.” She landed in the steel-framed chair across from him and crossed the leg of some ripped jeans over the other.

He studied her face. “Why you going to help me? The boss ain’t here. Anyone could challenge me at any time - why not you?”

“The boss ain’t here, that’s true - but _you_ are. And if she gets back here and hears people been disrespecting you? They’re gonna lose fingers.”

“Doesn’t explain why you’re so goddamn loyal,” he said mildly.

She grinned. “We got here the same time, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So look where you are now, and where _I_ am now. Man, if I was a dude I’d be the boss’ right hand man today.”

“That’s some of that - what do you call it - institutionalised sexism right there,” Ortiguez said. “You’d be her right-hand _woman_.”

“Exactly! So I do this, I help you do this deal and get the money promised, and when she gets back she sees that I can do the job just like you. We split the glory and maybe she’ll make me your lieutenant.”

Ortiguez shook his head. “Now _you’re_ doing it. Don’t you want to be the Captain?”

“Shit, you been watching TV again,” she grinned. “This ain’t no white boy show where we work just as hard and get paid just as much, and we’re all equal level, ‘ _homie_ ’. You know what it _is?_ ”

“What?” he asked.

“Our time - you make the rules, I just enforce ’em.” She got up. “Let’s go arrange a fresh meet. And when we got our half a million for those phones? We get lap dances from expensive strippers - girl for you, dude for me - and lots of beer as our tip. Deal?”

Ortiguez smiled. “Deal.” He put his hand out. “Phone, Mia.”

She pushed the landline toward him. “Phone, Danny.”

He picked up the receiver and started to dial.

ooOoo

The knife went in very delicately. It slid up and then back down again, just enough to push the metal block inside the door. The doorknob moved and then the knife kept the block at bay as the wooden entrance was gently moved inward.

Riggs pocketed the knife and stole a few steps inside the apartment. He turned to push the door to, but something was in the way.

Murtaugh gave a shove and Riggs stumbled back, grasping at the door to keep it from slamming into anything. “You told me you knew an informant here!” he hissed. “Why are we breaking in?”

“Keep your voice down!” Riggs hissed back. “I do, ok? Shut up and let me find ’em.”

Murtaugh glowered at him. Riggs ignored him and walked further into the flat.

A jumble of clothes in a plastic slotted washing basket, a guitar by a TV, heavy trainers by the door - Murtaugh just watched as Riggs navigated the dark confines of the front room as if new to it all. He folded his arms. Riggs disappeared round a doorway and it all went quiet.

Murtaugh waited.

And waited.

“Rog!” Riggs called.

Murtaugh scrambled across the room, already pulling his gun. He got to the doorway to find Riggs with the light on in what looked like a tiny kitchen, small pieces of paper in his hands. “What you got?”

“Looks like Mia Santiago is out tonight,” he said, flourishing a Post-It note at his partner.

Murtaugh snatched it off him. “What’s this?”

“Well call me crazy but I think that’s the licence plate of the truck we impounded, then gave to Danny when we temporarily let him go today.”

Murtaugh frowned. “Why does this Mia Santiago have it?”

“I guess she knows him. I guess he asked her for help. I guess they’re about to do the switch.”

“You do a lot of guessing. Any facts in there?”

“Uh… Mia’s been an informant for a few months; she’s pissed at her bosses for not letting her get ‘the real money’ in this life; she makes excellent burritos - she’s about to clock you one!”

“What?” Murtaugh began to turn.

Something heavy and hard went into his shoulder. It threw him off balance.

Riggs shoved him to one side. His hands jammed themselves into each wall around Murtaugh and he all but galloped over him to race out of the apartment.

Murtaugh pushed himself upright. “What just happened?”

He turned and saw the door open. He gave chase.

The apartment door banged shut behind him as he pounded down the hallway. He slapped into the wall to turn ninety degrees and go hell for leather down the stairs.

He heard shouting and banging from somewhere beyond the left turn at the bottom. Jumping the last few steps he pushed off the wall to turn and then come skidding to a halt.

A woman was trapped to the floor on her back. Riggs had his hands on her wrists, keeping her down. His knees were safely planted on the concrete but his boots had lifted up and landed on her ankles in a bid to keep them down too.

“Calm down!” he was shouting into her face. “I was just gonna ask you about a guy called Ortiguez!”

She struggled and wrenched but his limbs and his back gave like earthquake stilts on an L.A. condo. She grunted something then flopped back to look up at him. “I know you got a thing for chicas, but pinning me down ain’t gonna make me give you _shit!_ ” she raged.

He glared.

She struggled but her head rolled to one side as she did so, unable to meet his eyes.

“Now you listen to me,” he said quietly. “I ain’t here for you and I don’t care what you think you know about me. I’m here to get intel on Danny Ortiguez and his girl, and I swear, if you don’t tell us something useful, your informant days are gonna be a loooong, long way behind you. You get me?”

She coughed, then rolled her head to see his face. “His _girl?_ ”

“We just need to know where she’s being held, Mia. The rest is none of our business.”

Murtaugh inched closer, his gun ready but kept in check. “Just tell us where you’re keeping the little girl.”

“What little girl?” she demanded.

“ _His_ little girl - his daughter,” Murtaugh said.

She glared at him for a long moment. Then turned her head against the ground and the full force of her resentful stare was beamed at Riggs. “Why do you care?” she snapped. “Typical white-cop bullshit! Coming in here and thinking you can save the day while us bumbling village idiot _immigrants_ wail and wring our hands!”

Murtaugh looked affronted. “What you call me?”

“White-cop bullshit?” Riggs echoed, apparently confused. He looked round at Murtaugh, then back at Mia. “But… but… he’s black.”

“Get off me!” she yelled.

“Don’t run from us again, Mia,” Riggs warned. “We got guns, ok?”

“Pffff,” she scoffed.

He leant back to free her wrists, then pushed himself over to sit on the concrete next to her. “Well? The girl?”

She sat up and raised her knees quickly, nursing a wrist. “We don’t got her. The gang waiting for the shipment does.”

“Who _are_ they?” Murtaugh asked.

“They call themselves the New Ones,” she said.

“That’s original,” Riggs shrugged.

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “They’re bad news, man. I mean, at least we leave a man his limbs when we call. But they cut things off - things you need, like _heads_ ,” she said. “No-one will deal with them. That’s why they snatched her. To _make_ Danny give them the shipment.”

“They want a foot in the door - goods to start up shop with,” Murtaugh realised.

“And where is Danny now?” Riggs asked.

“How should I know?” she tutted. “Probably counting the boxes to make sure they’re all there. They said if they were even one short it was all off.” She paused to glare at him. “ _All_ off.”

Riggs and Murtaugh exchanged a look.

Riggs pushed himself to his feet. “Well, pleasure doing business with you, Mia.” He put a hand out.

She scoffed openly and got her feet under her by herself. Pulling her shirt and t-shirt straight, she looked him up and down. “You need a sleep, man. Like a proper sleep. And you smell like a brewery truck in a car crash.”

“Thanks,” he managed, pasting on a bright smile.

She rolled her eyes. “Danny wants it to go down tonight. I don’t know where yet. But I guess you two yahoos will figure out how to find him before then.”

“Oh we’re not looking for Danny,” Riggs said dismissively, his hand going behind him to check his gun was still in the back of his jeans.

“We’re not?” Murtaugh asked.

“Nah - we got better things to do,” Riggs winked. He began to trudge off in his large boots.

“Hey,” Santiago called. “What about my money?”

“When did I promise you money?” Riggs called, not looking back.

“ _Pendejo_ ,” she tutted.

“ _Sacacuartos!_ ” he called back.

Her mouth opened. Then she grinned, nodding. “You get me, man!”

He waved a hand over his shoulder and then started the walk back up the stairs.

Murtaugh looked at her, then over at his exit. “Uh… right. Be good… and stuff,” he said. He walked off.

She folded her arms and watched them go. She waited until Murtaugh had also begun the long walk back to the ground floor above.

And then she pulled out a phone and pressed the most recently dialled number. She put it to her ear. “Hey, Danny? Yeah, man - looks like it’s on. They bought it. All of it.”

ooOoo

The station was quiet as they walked back in. Riggs went to his desk and immediately picked up the phone.

“What is this ‘better thing’ we have to do than tracking Danny?” Murtaugh asked.

“Well has anyone asked who this ‘New Ones’ gang is and why they’re using Tongs?” He pressed buttons and waited.

“Bailey and Cruz are getting names for us - Cruz has been at the hospital all afternoon questioning the dude whose thumb you obliterated.”

“Anything?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Who you calling?”

“Hey - uh, yeah,” he said down the phone. “I’m calling about the order my boss put in? The pizza order?”

“What are you doing?” Murtaugh asked.

“No? You sure? You know I can’t say his name but he’s a medium height dude, kinda latino, with a face on like he’s chewing a bug,” he went on. He lifted an index finger at Murtaugh for patience. “Look man, I know it’s like top secret and everything but he told me to call you to make sure you had the delivery address right.” He paused. “Because if it’s not going to the right place then he’s going to kick my ass, you know what I’m saying? Alright then.” He waited. “1202 Donner Avenue. Yeah - yeah that’s the place,” he grinned. “You got it, man. That is a load off my mind. Yeah, thanks. Appreciate it. Oh absolutely my friend - if my boss asks, this conversation never happened.” He put the phone down, then spread his hands in surrender. “1202 Donner Avenue. That’s where they’re keeping her before the meet goes down.”

“How do you—. What did you just do?” Murtaugh demanded.

“The pizza place round the corner from where we first met Danny Ortiguez? They have an order to go - for a shady dude. I’m thinking this gang will need to feed them and the girl while they wait for this meet.”

“And you just assumed it was the only pizza place they’d go to? How’d you know they even wanted pizza?”

“Well it was a start,” he said with a shrug. “What now - we bust in there and get the girl back, and arrest everyone for kidnapping?”

“Can you wait two minutes so I can come with you?” Wabash said from behind Murtaugh.

They both jumped. “How do you do that?” Murtaugh asked her. He spun to look at Riggs. “How does she do that?”

“How should I know?” he shrugged. “Although you realise what this means.”

“ _What_ does this mean?” Murtaugh asked. Wabash looked from one to the other, watching despite her better instinct.

“It means you’re not the only ninja round here,” Riggs said, wiggling the one eyebrow they could still see.

Murtaugh frowned. “Well if this meet is tonight, then we don’t have much time. Can we go?”

“Wait,” Wabash said. “Just - please - two minutes.” She began to back away from them, toward the corridor. “Two minutes.”

“You interrupt us and then make us wait for you?” Murtaugh protested.

“Pit stop!” she said, turning for the door.

“Can’t you hold it?” Riggs called.

“If you’ve got any theories on how to change a tampon in less than thirty seconds then I’d love to hear them!” she called as she barrelled out of the door.

Riggs and Murtaugh looked at each other. It was quiet for a long moment.

“So… _You_ got any theories?” Riggs asked in all innocence.

“Why you asking me?” he asked, outraged.

“Well - you’re married, Rog.”

“So were you!”

“Yeah, but—”

“Don’t,” he sighed.

“Is this making you uncomfortable?” Riggs asked.

“Yes!”

“Why? It’s just biology.”

“It’s someone else’s _parts_ , Riggs. I don’t even talk about my _own_ parts.”

“Parts? We’re not talking cars here.”

“Parts, Riggs - _parts_. _Lady_ -parts. We don’t talk about man-parts, so we don’t talk about lady-parts neither.”

“Is this because Sergeant Cole from Traffic was watching you pee that time?”

“Riggs—.” Murtaugh closed his eyes, then shook his head. “You are _not_ doing this to me today. Be quiet, and wait for Wabash. Then we go to - where was it again? 1202 what?”

“1202 Donner Avenue.” He sniffed as they waited. He rocked on his heels. Then he pushed his hair back round his ears and turned for the exit. “Ok, that’s it. That’s got to be two minutes. Let’s go.”

“She’s going to be pissed when she finds out you went without her,” Murtaugh said haughtily.

“What’s this ‘you’ business?” he shot back. “You’re driving.”

“Oooh no - I am _not_ getting the blame for this.”

Riggs stopped and looked at him. He pointed clearly at his face. “I got one eye, Rog.”

“So?”

“So I’ll be sure to add this to the list of things I tell Trish when I _finally_ get dinner, wearing my new shirt.”

He pushed at his arm. “Gimme the keys and keep walking.”

Riggs flung them over his shoulder. Murtaugh snatched them from the air and they walked off.

Wabash rounded the corner. “Right - let’s—.” She frowned. “—Go?”

She looked around very slowly, finding the place empty. And then she let out a long breath.

ooOoo

The car pulled up and the engine died. Murtaugh peered past Riggs’ shoulder to see across the road.

Riggs had already fished a sight from his jacket pocket and was in the process of leaning his elbow on the open window to keep it steady. He aimed the sight across the traffic-less space between him and the target.

“Well,” he mused, “looks one one guy at the curtains there… one more walking around behind him… I reckon at least two more that can tag in and out, probably taking a rest somewhere in the back right now.” He paused. “No sign of the girl.”

“Let’s give it a few minutes,” Murtaugh said. “Just in case more people ‘walk around behind them’.” He paused. “And why are we here without back-up?”

“Because it’s cleaner,” he huffed. “Be quiet.”

Murtaugh blinked. “You know… Even when you’re barely standing up straight, or you’re pretty drunk, you’re always happy.” He took off his sunglasses and wiped at his forehead. “I mean, not _happy_ -happy, more like fake-happy, but you always make the effort.”

“What’s your point?”

“I mention we don’t have back-up and you huff.”

“I did not huff.”

“Yes you did! I asked a question and then you huffed,” Murtaugh protested. “Why?”

“Maybe because you’re talking when we should be casing this place for a way in?”

“No. It’s not the back-up. It’s because we left Wabash behind.”

“She’s not on this case.” He sniffed. “Officially.”

“Right.” He bent forward to look round his partner to try to see across the street. Then he gave up and sat back. “And how do you know this Mia Santiago woman?”

“She’s an informant. Sometimes I pay her money and she tells me things,” Riggs muttered.

“How many times have you paid her?”

“I don’t know - like a couple,” he said, before turning his head to look at him. “Why? What are you, the informant police?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said deliberately.

Riggs’ eye went up to the roof lining as he thought that one through. “Ok, but not what I meant.”

“What I’m trying to say is, maybe you shouldn’t share things with her.”

“Share things? No - _I_ pay _her_ money, and _she_ tells _me_ things, Rog.” He shook his head and looked back through the sight.

“Really? Cos she seemed to know a bit about you. And… your wife.”

“What?” he asked, looking back at him.

“She said something about knowing you had a thing for ‘chica’s. I’m guessing she meant your wife. Why would you tell her about her? You don’t even tell _me_ about her.”

“What are you—. What?” Riggs managed, and Murtaugh saw every one of the tell-tale signs that he was out of his depth and not happy about it. “I never told her a damn thing, Rog. What is it with you and personal stuff?” He turned deliberately to face the street.

“I just—.” He sighed. “So if _you_ didn’t tell her, who did?” he asked quietly.

Riggs’ eye lifted from the sight. He turned slowly, before pointing at Murtaugh. “That’s a very good point.”

“And I’ll tell you another - you notice how Wabash seems to be calling a central handler or network guy to organise these DEA informants? Not calling them direct? Like, you know, protocol, if they’re yours?”

Riggs shrugged. “Maybe she’s not their handler.”

“Then she wouldn’t have known who was available and how to make that happen - how can she know the whereabouts of all the informants in L.A. that she could draw on?”

“So you think she’s lying about handling informants? What difference does that make?”

“First things first,” Murtaugh said darkly. “We need to get Ortiguez’s daughter back.”

Riggs turned his single eye back to the sight.

All was quiet. A car passed them, the breeze blew into the thin trees dotted about the street.

Presently, Riggs put down the sight. “Yeah - I’m pretty sure it’s just the four of them.”

“You mean two you can see, and two you can’t?” Murtaugh pressed.

“Yep.”

“So you want to just go in there and ask them for the girl back?”

“Something like that.” He leant round the seat to reach for something in the back. He pulled it over to reveal a bullet proof vest.

“Wow,” Murtaugh said. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

“What?”

“You actually going to wear that?”

“No - it’s for you.” He dropped it into his lap before getting out of the car.

Murtaugh rolled his eyes and got out. He pulled on the vest and began to strap it securely before he noticed Riggs was already ambling across the road, his gun dangling in his hand behind him.

“Not the front door!” Murtaugh hissed.

Riggs went right up to the front door and rang the bell. He put both hands behind him, his gun glinting every so often in the afternoon sun.

Murtaugh frantically searched for something to say - but the front door _opened_. He began to run.

Riggs nodded a friendly hello to the man in the doorway. The next second he had grabbed his shoulder with one hand and lifted the gun into his face with the other. They began to walk into the house.

Murtaugh leapt over the very short hedge to the front lawn. He raced around the back of the building. Slamming his back into the wall, he edged along until he came to a set of patio windows. He paused, listening. He heard exactly what he expected to hear.

“He’s a cop, man! I ain’t shooting no cop!”

“Oh believe me, you _do not_ want to shoot a cop. Which I am - so hey, you get points for your powers of observation, Slick.”

“We shoot him, we run. Easy!”

“I ain’t doing it!”

“Maybe I’ll do him _and_ you!”

“Woah, easy. All I want is the girl - you four can carry on doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

“What girl?”

Murtaugh reached over and tugged at the door handle. _Locked! Typical! If Riggs had done this it wouldn’t be locked!_ He drew back and listened but from the heated conversation going on inside, no-one had seen him. His head flailed round on his neck as he sought for some divine intervention. His eyes fell on a plant pot.

“I’m telling you, cop! Let him go or we shoot you!”

“ _You_ shoot him - not me. I’m out!”

“Stay there or I shoot you! If the boss found out you ran she’d knife you in your sleep!”

“She’d have to find me first!”

“Guys! Guys! Really! I’m still a cop, and I’m still holding a gun on your friend, here. Now I’ll say it again - I’m only here for the girl. _Where is she?_ ”

“What girl? We don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You’d better know in the next few seconds or this gent here - sorry, what’s your name?”

“Screw you!”

“Ok. So if you don’t get a clue in the next few seconds, Screw You Jenkins here is going to get shot in the face.”

A deathly pause.

“Shall I count?” Riggs cleared his throat. “Wait a minute, let me just… shift a little here… Ok. _Now_ I won’t get splattered.”

“What! Jesus - let me go!”

“Oh hey, I’m not Jesus. I just want to know _where the girl is!_ ”

“I don’t know no girl! I swear on my momma’s life! I’ll tell you anything, cop, anything!”

“Shut up, Jermaine!”

“I’ll tell you anything - just don’t shoot me!”

An almighty smash made four people jump and one grip tighter to the arm he had hold of.

A plant pot flew through the air - directly between the eyes of Riggs and the handgun of someone holding it at his face.

It whammed into the wall and exploded in a myriad of twinkling, deadly pieces.

Six people stared at the results of the destruction on the carpet.

And then Murtaugh stepped in through the broken patio window, his gun raised and aimed on the nearest person. “Ok - all of you. Hands in the air. Drop _all_ of your guns! Do it _now!_ ”

“Oh, hey Rog,” Riggs grinned.

Murtaugh watched one man and two women release their hold on handguns. They fell to the carpet. He looked at Riggs, still holding a man by his arm, his own gun held vaguely to the man’s temple. “Ok, you’re all under arrest. Now do what we tell you, and no-one here has to get hurt.”

The two women looked at each other. Then they stuck their wrists out in silence.

“See? Smart ladies,” Murtaugh nodded. He grabbed for the handcuffs on the back of his belt. He tossed them toward one of the women. “Cuff yourself to your friend, there, please.”

She snatched the handcuffs from the air and quickly slapped one around herself, and then around the wrist of the woman next to her.

“Riggs, give the man your handcuffs,” Murtaugh said, his gun still trained on the one man standing by himself. A pair of handcuffs came sailing through the air to land on the carpet by the man’s feet. “Now then,” Murtaugh said. “Get one cuff on yourself, please.” He looked at Riggs, then gestured over with his head. “And him. Let’s go.”

Riggs pushed his captive in the right direction before sweeping his hair out of his single eye and walking round the corner of the room. “I’ll find her!” he called.

Murtaugh gestured for the last man to cuff himself to the other. He stood back and studied the four of them. “So what’s going on here? You babysitting the girl or what?”

“Look mister, we don’t know no girl,” one woman said. “All I _do_ know is, it’s easier to get arrested and bailed than shot.”

“We’ll see about that,” he muttered. He reached into his pocket for his phone, pressing at the screen with his thumb. He raised it to his ear. “Hey, Bailey. We just arrested four perps - suspects in the whole gang-kidnaps-other-gang-member’s-daughter thing. Yeah. We’re at 1202 Donner Avenue. Can you have them picked up? No - no sign of her, but Riggs is combing the place. Yeah - appreciate it.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “Now then. Let’s chat about the girl.”

The ex-captive threw his free hand in the air. “We don’t got one! What are you talking about!”

“Then why are you all here, waiting for pizza?”

“Because we’re waiting for Danny to get here and tell us what to do next!” one woman cried.

“Shut up, Daria!”

Murtaugh grinned. “Right, right… So you’re Jermaine, she’s Daria, and you’re waiting for your lieutenant to come by and tell you what the gang’s doing next, seeing as how every time you to try to do a deal, the cops show up and arrest people.”

Daria frowned. “How do you—”

“Shut up!” the unnamed man urged.

It fell silent.

Until Riggs came back round the corner to the room. “Hey, uh, Rog?” he asked.

“What?”

“We may have the wrong house.”

“ _What?_ ” He stormed over to him, keeping the other four in sight. “Say that again.”

“There’s no sign of a young girl here - and no kidnapping stuff. I don’t think she was ever here.”

Murtaugh fumed. He glanced at the four before he _glared_ at Riggs. “So where is she?”

Riggs bit his lower lip for a long moment. “I don’t…” He blew out a sigh. “I don’t know.”

“ _What?_ ”

Riggs looked over at the four people. Murtaugh opened his mouth but Riggs put a palm up to silence him. “Which one of you is going to tell me the name of Danny Ortiguez’s daughter?” he asked clearly.

“What daughter?” Jermaine shrugged. “He don’t have no daughter. At least, none that I know about, and I know a lot about him.”

“Shut - up!” the other man snapped.

Riggs turned and looked at Murtaugh.

Murtaugh tilted his head at him. “That lying piece of—”

Riggs waved a hand at him. “Jermaine, my man,” he called, walking over and stopping right in front of him. “Tell _me_ everything you know about Danny Ortiguez.”

“Don’t tell him nothing,” the other man spat.

Riggs’ arm flailed and his handgun went into the man’s face. “Oh! I’m sorry!” Riggs gasped.

The man clapped his hands over his nose, moaning in pain as blood gushed out.

“Old war wound - sometimes I get a muscle twitch,” Riggs grinned. He looked back at Jermaine. “So tell me. Why would Danny tell us that the New Kids on the Block Gang have his daughter?”

Daria put up a palm. “I think I know.”

Murtaugh blinked in surprise. He crossed the room and looked at her. “Well?”

“I guess he was double-crossing the people we were supposed to sell the phones to. He’s been acting weird lately - like he don’t want to follow orders no more. That sidekick of his - she’s the only girl he knows. And _she_ knows everything. We can get her for you.”

“Daria - no,” the other woman hissed.

Daria rolled her eyes. “It’s over, Carla. We do a deal, we get out - maybe even turn informant. _That’s_ where the real money is.”

“Carla,” Riggs said politely, his hands - and by extension, his gun - going behind his back. “Who is this sidekick of Danny’s?”

The two women looked at each other. Then Carla sighed. “Ok, fine. But we want informant duties like she got.”

“Who?” Riggs pressed.

“Mia. Mia Santiago.”

Murtaugh looked at Riggs - who frowned. “And you _know_ she’s an informant?”

“Well… yeah,” Carla shrugged. “Don’t everybody?”

“Danny’s been telling her to do stuff for weeks,” Daria said. “And she’s been master-minding like new deals and shit. It ain’t right. That kind of planning is supposed to come from the boss.”

“And where is the boss?” Murtaugh asked.

“She’s in New York. She was supposed to be back a few days ago but we’re still waiting.”

“Daria,” Riggs said quietly. Everyone turned and looked at him. “How do you know Mia Santiago’s an informant?”

“I seen her on the phone to the DEA. And then I seen her get money from this native American chick - kinda short, got a long pony tail of that fine-ass hair. Mia gets cash given to her - a lot, she says, though I ain’t seen her carry it around. She must be hiding it somewhere.”

Riggs’ face dropped. He rammed the gun into the belt at the back of his jeans and marched out of the room.

Murtaugh fished in his pocket for his phone quickly. “You four - don’t move,” he barked. He slapped the phone to his ear. “Yeah - Bailey. Cars on their way? Great. Listen can you—.” He heard the sound of a car starting up. Tyres squealed and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ll need a ride back to the station. And if you see Wabash from the DEA? Warn her Riggs is coming - and he _knows_. —She’ll understand.”


	5. 5

The door to Captain Avery’s office flew open. Avery and Wabash jumped and looked up to see Riggs storming through. He didn’t even acknowledge Avery, instead planting his hands on his hips and glaring down at Wabash.

“Why didn’t you tell us Mia Santiago was one of yours?” he demanded.

The unusual quietness to his voice spooked Avery, who stood slowly. “Now, Detective, I think—”

“Please,” Wabash said. Avery paused, and Wabash looked up at Riggs. “I could not. Her handler—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “She’s feeding directly to you, you know she is. Drop the act.”

She got to her feet. “Listen carefully, Detective,” she said calmly. “Mia has been with me for two years. In that time she has given me more by being a double-informant than you’ll ever know.”

“So you know she’s working for Danny Ortiguez - you knew all this time?” Riggs cried.

“Yes.”

“And you knew Danny doesn’t have a daughter!”

“I was unsure of that fact. However I had to pretend in order to preserve the idea that these iPhones are all there is to this.”

“What ‘this’?” he shouted. “If you’d told us from the start then we coulda worked together on this! Instead we been running around in circles so you could protect your precious double-agent! And from what? Danny? His boss? Apparently she’s in New York!”

She stepped closer to him. “She _is_ in New York - but no-one can know what she’s doing.”

“Well go ‘Team DEA’, _Agent_ \- me and Rog just arrested four of Danny’s gang and made them tell us all about Mia being your informant!” His head tilted to get closer to hers. “Oh, and by the way? Apparently _everyone knows_ Mia’s an informant!”

“I hope they _do_ \- I have invested a lot of time and government money in her being seen as such.”

“Oh have you!”

She pushed her face closer to his. Suddenly her eyes were the most intense he had ever seen. “What they don’t know is that she is also passing false intel to Danny Ortiguez and his boss for us.”

“Us? Us?” Riggs spluttered. “You mean the DEA!”

“You have also profited from Mia’s work, Detective!” she shot back.

“Yeah so you shoulda _told_ us she was one of yours!”

“You should have followed procedure and we would not be at odds!”

“Excuse me!” Avery cried.

Riggs paused, breathing hard, glaring at her.

Avery leant his hands on his desk. “Is this one of those hetero meet-cute things? If it is, can you just skip to the part where you kiss and get a room? If not, can we _get on with this case_ please?”

Riggs immediately put a hand through his hair and backed up one, looking at his feet as if he’d never seen them before. Wabash cleared her throat, pulling her jacket straight before sitting down as if nothing at all had happened.

“Thank you,” Avery sighed. “Now.” He sat himself. Riggs did not; instead he prowled around the back of the room, behind the chairs, as if still too angry for something as harmless as sitting. “Riggs… What now?”

“Mia’s been _my_ informant for a few months,” he bit out.

Wabash turned to look at him. “I did not know that.”

“What you been telling her about me?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she said, mildly surprised. “Why would I—”

“She thinks she knows things about me, Wabash,” he accused.

“She did not get them from me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? Are you sure you didn’t let something slip? Something profiling?”

“I do not have any information about you to tell her,” she said.

He wiped a hand over his face then walked out of the room.

Avery sat back, letting out a long breath. “And there it goes: Hurricane Riggs,” he said quietly. He looked at her. “You ok?”

“I’m…” Her mouth worked for a second in silence. Then her head tilted in confusion and she pinned him with a furrowed look. “I don’t even know where to begin. What was I supposed to say? Why? What’s happening?”

He smiled almost in apology. “Welcome to my day, now those two are in it.”

ooOoo

Murtaugh swept into the open office through the elevator doors. “Bailey?” he called.

She turned from her desk. “Hey.”

He spun and then noticed her, walking over. He plonked himself down on the edge of her desk. “Anything from Cruz?”

“Yeah - a lot, actually. He says the guy who lost his thumb was pretty helpful in all the things he _didn’t_ say. He wouldn’t talk about Danny Ortiguez and he wouldn’t comment on any daughter. Cruz thinks the guy’s pretty new to the gang, and this is the first time he’s been hurt. It freaked him out.”

“Uh-huh. It’s all fun and games till you get your thumb shot off.”

“Right,” she smiled. “He _did_ say he didn’t know who the third gang was, and he had no idea some of them were Tongs - he says if he _did_ know he’d quit. He doesn’t mess with them, apparently.”

“Very helpful,” Murtaugh sighed. “So… after we arrested four perps today, and uncovered some useful intel on informants… anything for us?”

“Us?”

“Yeah - have you seen Riggs anywhere?”

“Everyone did. He had a shouting match with Agent Wabash and Avery in the Captain’s office, then disappeared.”

“What?” he asked. His face fell and got up off the desk. “Where is he? Is he ok?”

“I don’t know, and probably not.”

“Figures.” He looked around. “I’ll go find him.”

“When you do, tell him that file he wanted on Mia Santiago is now _out_ of official red tape and he can read it when he wants.”

“What? He asked you for a file?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “I had to get the Captain’s permission but he got the DEA to release the info, so…” She reached into her drawer and pulled out a brown manila file. “Here. You give it to him.”

“Thanks, Bailey.”

“You’re welcome.”

He took the file and walked toward the break room, opening the front cover and reading as he walked. He paused at the entrance to the room but it was empty. The vending machine sat in the corner, looking just a little bit lonely without its key customer. Murtaugh thought for a long moment.

ooOoo

The glass door swung open so fast Doctor Cahill jumped. Sheets of paper dropped from her hand and fell between her feet and the filing cabinet. She closed the drawer before thinking about picking them up.

“It just - it just - it was _rude!_ ” Riggs called at her, his hand still propping the door open.

She turned and assessed the desperation on his face. “Do we have an appointment?”

“Well hey - you always tell me your door is always open!” he blustered, walking in anyway. He swirled in a circle to close it properly.

“By all means, come on in,” she said to herself. She crouched and picked up the papers as she watched him pace the room, his boots heavy and bordering on frantic. “What’s happened?” she asked, concerned.

“What she called her was rude!” he cried.

“Who called who rude? Riggs, calm down.”

“I _am_ calm!” he raged. “This is my calm face!”

She got up, putting the papers face down on top of the filing cabinet. “You’re going to have to stop, Riggs. Take a breath. Start from the beginning,” she said.

He paced backwards and forwards, sweeping a hand through his hair.

“At least sit down,” she said. “Back up - what happened to your eye? Your hand?”

“She just - she - she was talking about her like she knew her, or her ‘type’, or something!” he blurted. He did not stop pacing. “And it was damned rude!”

“Ok, it was rude,” she nodded. “Explain.”

“Just - wrong! Like - like - like everything she was and all the stuff we did and everything that happened - all of that was just boiled down into a tiny little word and she used it like it was spit, you know? Like it was something she scraped off her boot heel and I just—.” He stopped himself, jamming a knuckle in his mouth.

Cahill watched Riggs pace up and down the room. She waited. And then she waited some more. “This must be about your wife.” She paused. “What was this word she called her?”

“It don’t matter,” he managed, turning his back to her.

“Yes, it does,” she said gently. “Probably more than anything has mattered to you in a long time. You can tell me, Riggs. Believe me, I won’t be shocked. Some of the language officers use in this office would shock _you_.”

He looked at her abruptly; she just raised her eyebrows and waited. He shook his head and turned away.

“Ok,” she said, her hands out in resignation. “But you came in here because you wanted to tell someone, and now I’m asking you to tell me.”

He paced again, but this time stopped in front of her windows to look out. “She said… she said she thought I… I had a thing for chicas.”

“Who ‘she’?” she asked.

“A perp.”

“When was this?”

“Earlier. Like… I don’t know. What day is it today?”

“Tuesday.”

“Figures.”

Her head tilted as she watched the tension slip just a little from his shoulders. “Are you more angry that someone called your wife a ‘chica’, or that it took some time for this to boil to the surface?”

“Yes!” he cried.

She eyed him, but everything about him was still desperation, not anger. “Why is that such a bad word?”

“It’s not that, it’s—.” He swung his arms around behind him then back in front, over and over, as he took to pacing the room again. “It’s like - she said it like ‘oh everyone knows you have a thing for chicas’ - like I trawl bars at night looking one type of woman - or - or - or - or that I pick ’em up like fresh socks or somethin’!” His hands went through his hair. “She was my _wife_ , not some - I don’t know - disposable whatever it was she meant by that word!”

“Is it possible that she said that - in that way - to upset you deliberately?” she asked calmly.

He stopped dead to look at her. “Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. You were there. What was she trying to deflect?”

“What?” he asked, surprised. “You think she was trying to distract me?”

“A lot of people do when cornered,” she reasoned. “If they know they can’t overcome you with brute force, they may try to insult, to _distract_ , until your attention is divided and they can escape.” She paused. “Is it possible it was a shot in the dark, hoping to unbalance you?”

He dropped to the sofa, sagging as if he’d sprung an air leak. “I shouted at an agent, too.”

“Was this for something they deserved?”

“No - why do you think I shouted at her?” he huffed. “I mean, I…” He sat forward and put his head in his hands. “It’s all going wrong, Doc.”

“That may be what you see from your perspective. But it’s not what I see.”

“Oh yeah? Then you don’t see a daytime drunk who takes his anger out on other people.”

“I see… someone who is fighting to _want_ to put his life back together. I see someone who still risks that life, every day, to help others. I see someone who mistakes one emotion for another… but that’s ok. Nothing you’ve done is a capital offence, Riggs.”

“Avery said something about me and her and it made me… I don’t know.”

“What did he say?” she asked.

He didn’t move his hands from his face. “Nothing. It just… threw me.”

“Is this before or after you shouted at Wabash?”

Now he looked at her. “How did you know it was Wabash?”

“She’s the only ‘agent’ here, Riggs,” she said quietly, with a small smile.

He frowned at her. “It was after. And it don’t matter what Avery said. What matters is that I was out of line and she just stood there and…” He dragged a hand through his hair to pull it out of his face.

“She what?”

“She was better at arguing than I was, is all.”

“Did you want her to lose?”

“No, not—. Look, I just… I shouldn’t have shouted at her. That’s it. End of.”

“So what are you going to do about that?”

He was quiet for a long moment, chewing on his lower lip. He looked at the carpet resolutely. “Nothing.”

“Do you _want_ to do nothing? Or is that just more comfortable right now?”

“I—.” He looked around the room. “It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” she said, suddenly firm. He looked at her in surprise. “From her point of view, it wasn’t fair for a detective in the police to question her or shout at her or try to challenge her for just being there and probably trying to aid in an investigation. Whatever it was you shouted at her for? Maybe she had to do that in order to do her job.” She paused. “So yeah, Riggs, none of it was fair.”

“I didn’t mean…” He huffed, clearly out of words.

“I know you had no intention of taking your anger out on her,” she said quietly. “I know it’s unfair on you too, Riggs - losing your wife, everyone looking at you with sympathy instead of help; hell, just getting up in the morning is totally unfair, especially on Mondays.” She paused. “But that’s how it is.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. He ran his hands through his hair, letting his head sink to scrutinise the carpet between his boots. His hands rested on the back of his head for the longest time.

She began to smile. “Seriously - what happened to your hand?”

“A box.”

“Right. And your eye?”

“Eye- _lid_. Splinter.”

“Off the same box?”

“No.”

“Hell of a week,” she offered.

He pushed himself to his feet. “Sorry for - you know, shouting.”

“I think it helped.”

“Right.” He walked past her chair to the door. “Uh… thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for, Riggs.” She got up to look at him as he grabbed the door handle. “But… take it easy, ok? Look after yourself just a little bit more every day.”

“Well I bought domestic beer this time, so it’s not as strong. Does that count?”

She smiled. “It’s a step.”

He nodded, pulling on the door.

“And - Riggs.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her you’re sorry.”

He looked at her until something in him forced his eye to stare at the carpet. Then he yanked the door open and disappeared.

She sighed, shook her head, and went over to her desk to find a bottle of water.

ooOoo

Murtaugh pulled up at the beach, beside the pick-up truck that still had Texas plates on it. Surveying the sand for signs of recent disturbance, he got out of the car and traipsed through it to the door. He banged on it, then waited.

Nothing. He raised his hand again but then paused. He heard a low voice coming from somewhere and moved to the window to try to see in.

“Hey Rog - you breaking and entering?”

He turned quickly to find Riggs coming round the end of the trailer. “I knocked - you weren’t in.”

“I’m about to be.” He pushed his phone into his pocket and went to the door. He opened it up, going up the steps. “Come on in.”

Murtaugh climbed up after him, leaving the door open. He was surprised to find the inside relatively clear of bottles and half-eaten food, and the couch actually empty of clothes and/or blankets. “So… what happened? Bailey said you left the station after some kind of argument.”

“And?” he asked, going to the fridge and fetching a beer. He offered it to Murtaugh. He just frowned at him so Riggs twisted off the cap and shut the fridge. He took a long swig.

“And as your partner, I was worried about you,” Murtaugh said. He plonked himself down on the sofa. “You don’t argue, you go off and do exactly what you want anyway. Something’s not right with you and I want to know what it is.”

“I’m fine, Rog,” he said with a smile.

“Don’t do that face at me!” he warned, pointing. “Don’t pretend everything’s ok. That’s your ‘if I make this face he won’t ask again’ smile. Don’t do it.”

“Oh, really?” he grinned. “I had no idea I had a ‘make this face and he’ll stop’ smile. Do I have any others? Like a ‘gimme a doughnut’ face?”

“Riggs.”

“Or a ‘stop asking me cos I won’t tell you’ face?”

“Riggs!”

He leant on the stove, drinking his beer.

Murtaugh dropped the manila file to the table. “I brought you Mia Santiago’s file. Bailey found it for you, after Avery gave her clearance.” He paused. “Do you want to do this together?”

“Open it,” he shrugged. “What’s it say about who she’s been talking to?”

Murtaugh flipped a few pages in. “She’s been on the DEA payroll for a few years. It says here that she may also moonlight as a police informant. It doesn’t say who for.” He looked up. “So no-one would have known it was you.”

“Yeah yeah - skip to the good bits.”

“According to this, she’s been passing info to the DEA, but also telling gang members she’s DEA so they’ll believe her when she tells them what the DEA wants her to. Sounds to me like she’s a double-agent.”

“That’s what Wabash called her.”

“When you argued in Avery’s office?”

“How’d you know about that?”

“ _Everyone_ knows about that, Riggs. People heard you in Burbank.”

He sipped his beer. “We were just… getting our facts straight.”

“And then? Cahill says you went to see her. It’s hard enough to get you to attend _booked_ appointments - and you went to her in the middle of the day.” He paused. “Do you see why I’m worried about you?”

“Frankly? No,” he said flatly. “Why do you care, Rog? What’s it to you whether I drink myself to sleep or get up for work in the morning? Why _do_ you care?”

Murtaugh’s mouth fell open and he stared for a moment. Then he sat a little straighter. “We been partners for a while, now. I thought we were friends. Friends worry about each other.”

“I don’t worry about you.”

“You gave me a bullet proof vest.”

“Well _I_ wasn’t going to wear it.”

“You make sure Trish doesn’t know how bad I get hurt.”

“I’m scared of Trish.”

“Riggs… Just… stop,” he sighed. “It’s ok to have friends, alright?”

“So people keep telling me.” He finished his beer and then shook the empty at him. “You sure you don’t want one?”

“I am very sure. Now what happened with Wabash?”

“Nothing,” he said, rather too defensively. “I mean, uh… I just… I just asked her how Mia seemed to know things about me.” He opened the fridge and got another beer out. “She said she didn’t know.”

“Ahhh,” Murtaugh allowed, sitting back in the couch. “Now it becomes clear.”

“What does?” he asked. He twisted off the cap and sipped it.

Murtaugh opened his mouth. He watched Riggs drink a third of the bottle without stopping as thoughts went through his mind - _Mia mentioned his wife - he found out Mia was working for Wabash - he tried to talk to Wabash about what she said_ —. He shook his head. “Forget it,” he managed. “Why is Mia so important?”

“Because she knows things she shouldn’t know, and she’s not getting them from the DEA, the police, or her own gang.”

“So you think she’s working for _another_ party too?”

“It’s possible.”

“That’s thin, Riggs.”

“Thin is a bullet proof vest without the kevlar plate,” he said dismissively.

Murtaugh sat up. “Let’s go back to the station and see if Bailey can’t find out who else Mia’s been talking to. And Cruz - he may know.”

ooOoo

The cellphone sitting on the desk rang. Wabash reached out for it, but the name on the screen made her pause. She took a breath, then set the phone down again gently.

Finally the ringing stopped. She glanced at the phone. Then again. Then she turned away from it deliberately, picking up a file and reading it through.

The phone made a beep and vibrated. Her hand snatched it up and she read the headline telling her she had a voicemail.

She pressed the button and waited. She pressed a key to start playing back the message.

“ _Hey, it’s me. Uh, Riggs.”_ Pause _. “Right, well… Sorry about - about - Avery’s office. I just… Well anyway. Sorry. For shouting. You didn’t deserve it and I was out of line._ ”

A beep and a recorded menu began talking, but she pressed the key to hear the message again.

Finally she saved it and put the phone on the desk.

She went back to her file and began to read.

Until her eyes were drawn back to the phone.

She got up, dropped the file to the desk, and wandered away to look out of the hotel window. She surveyed the small part of the city she could see.

Eventually she turned back and picked up her phone. She tapped at the message box quickly, before pressing ‘send’ and dropping the phone to the desk. Then she went to the room phone and ordered food.

ooOoo

“So basically,” Murtaugh said from his seat behind his desk, “Mia’s on both sides and perhaps another, Danny lied about having a daughter to make us release him so he could do this phone deal - his lieutenants believe he’s ripping off the original buyers on purpose to sell to this new gang, and we have no idea where all this is going down.”

Riggs, his feet up on the edge of his desk, threw his hands out in surrender. The white bandage around his left palm was starting to look a little dog-eared, but it was still bravely trying to do its job. “Well hey - we got four of them and we know Danny’s lying. That’s more than we knew yesterday. And seeing as there’s no kid involved, it’s now just a straight smuggling case. Right?”

“There’s that,” Murtaugh nodded.

Something beeped and Riggs felt a tickle in his jeans pocket. He pulled out his phone and frowned at it.

“What is it? Something for us?” Murtaugh asked. “Is it Cruz?”

“No,” Riggs said, getting up abruptly and walking away.

“Ok then!” Murtaugh called after him, annoyed.

Riggs wandered into the break room, the phone held behind him as if smuggling candy into school. He stopped by the vending machine and then unlocked the phone. He read the message.

‘ _Your anger may have been justified._ ’

He frowned, pocketed the phone, and then found change for a fresh bag of Cheese Puffs.


	6. 6

The phone rang. And rang.

A groan emanated from the pile of rumpled t-shirt and jeans on the excuse for a couch.

The phone was persistent.

A hand appeared from the collection of modern art and snatched it up. A quick tap and swipe and it disappeared under the clothes. “Well?” Riggs rumbled.

“Where are you?”

He opened his eye, realised he was face down on his sofa in the dark, and pushed himself onto his back. “Who is this?” he managed. His other hand went through his hair in an effort to help him see.

“Wabash. Where are you?”

“Uh… Why?”

“Because a deal is going down and I need back-up.”

He pulled the phone away from his face to check the caller number on it, then blinked in disbelief. “Say that again?”

“Your accent is thicker when you are tired.” She paused. “The docks, Kamen Street. Come now. And bring any guns you have along with your badge.”

The line clicked. He dropped the phone to his chest, his mouth still open. “Women,” he groaned.

Then he rolled off the couch directly onto the floor, using it to orientate the climb to his feet. He spied his boots by the door and, rubbing his only eye with his only perfect hand, aimed for them.

ooOoo

Murtaugh brought the car to a silent stop, pushing it into Park and peering out of the front windshield into mostly darkness. “Did she say _where_ we were supposed to be?”

“No, she did not,” Riggs said, opening up the passenger door and climbing out. He shut the door carefully and looked around.

The docks, not really liking his curious stare, shrugged off his inspection and continued to sit shrouded in thick, midnight sea-air. A large warehouse to their left was watching them with amusement, wondering what kind of antics they would get up to.

An engine noise made Riggs half-duck behind the car and Murtaugh hurry out of the vehicle. The two of them made for the dark side panels of the warehouse, melting into the gloom it provided like ice into whisky.

A tinkle and rumble made Riggs jump. He slapped a hand to his jeans pocket and then yanked out his phone. Fiddling with the top, he heard Murtaugh give a giant huff.

“What are you doing?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Putting the damn thing on silent!” Riggs hissed back. Mission accomplished, he unlocked the phone and read a new message. “Wabash says there’s a van out front. We must be at the back.”

“She went ahead with her fake meet-up anyway? Or is this the _real_ deal?”

“How should I know?”

“What the hell are we supposed to do if the Tongs turn up now?”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Riggs interrupted, one finger up to shush him. “ _Alleged_ Tongs.”

“We’re two guys with guns, Riggs. They’ll be crashing in here like the A-Team, with proper weapons and loads of friends.” He paused. “We call for back-up.”

“Rog, wait a second,” Riggs hissed. “There’s a reason she’s not asking the DEA for help.”

He stood and waited, his mouth open. But Riggs had nothing else to offer. “Well?” Murtaugh asked. “What is that reason?”

“I don’t know!” he scoffed. “Look, all I’m saying is, she turns up here on her own, she lies about why she’s here, she sells us on Danny’s bogus daughter when her best informant is Danny’s best lieutenant so she must have _known_ he didn’t have one, and then she calls us in the middle of the night for back-up. Why not her own DEA guys? Why not a SWAT team? Something is totally rotten in Denmark, Rog. I can smell it.”

“Over the funk of your own shirts? I don’t believe you.”

“You still owe me a new shirt.”

“You will get your own shirt and you will tell Trish I bought it you.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll tell her you verbally assaulted Wabash in Avery’s office.”

Riggs frowned. He raked his hair out of his eye. “You coming or what?”

“Of course!” He threw his arms wide. “Why not?”

Riggs turned and began to very quietly heel-toe toward the corner of the warehouse wall in front of them. Murtaugh shuffled after him.

Riggs stopped. He dropped to one knee and slid his good eye round the corner. He pulled back, but then did it again, this time staying there.

“Well?” Murtaugh asked.

“No-one. Come on.”

“You want us to just walk around there like nothing’s happening?”

Riggs was already out of sight round the corner. “Nope.”

Murtaugh huffed and went around - and nearly smacked into the base of a metal ladder, complete with safety cage. Looking up told him Riggs was already galloping toward the roof like a squirrel on Speed. He rolled his eyes, ducked through the gap in the safety cage, and began to climb.

ooOoo

Mia Santiago sat on the bonnet of the van, swinging her boots, her hands out behind her on the hood. “So when we done this, what’s next?”

Danny Ortiguez, next to her, shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe get us some stolen cars, make easy money with the parts in Tijuana.”

“No way, man,” she grinned. “That’s small-time. I’m talking the next big score. You know how the boss will react when she gets back here. This cellphone thing is a _huge_ deal. She’s gonna want the next one to be… more huge.”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “We gotta lay low for a while first. One big score, then go quiet. Another big score, then go quiet. It confuses the Feds - and this new gang.”

Her smile faded dead away. “Yeah… What do we do about them? They’re animals, man.”

“I got a plan,” he said airily.

“Oh you got a plan?” She sat up, wiping her palms together. “Like what?”

“Like you still got that DEA chick on the hook, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Mia, I know all about her.” He looked at her. “Look man, I’m sorry, but… I used you.”

“What?” she asked, her voice like stone.

“I know you’re playing both ends, right? You tell her a little bit, you tell me a little bit - you get paid twice and everyone’s happy.” He watched her open her mouth, her finger coming up to accuse him. “Wait, Mia - listen. I told you what was going down tonight so you’d tell your DEA friend. And then I told Franco, because he’ll tell his Tong friends. You and me? We’ll be in the middle of getting these phones unloaded to the buyer when the Feds _and_ the Tongs show up. What happens next?”

“We all get _shot_ , _idiota_.”

“No - we make a run for it. The Feds want the phones and the other guys, right? We get away clean, and _they_ get shot or arrested.”

She glared at him.

“Come on Mia - you know it’s good business,” he grinned.

She folded her arms. “You could have told me, dude. I could have sold it better to her. She’s not even here and those guys will be here any second.”

“Sorry. But there’s a lot going on right now and I don’t know who I can trust.”

Her mouth fell open as she turned to stare at him. Her left hand went out and thumped into his bicep. “Just for that?” she snapped. “You do this on your own.”

“Mia, wait—”

“No. You do this with the only person you can _trust_.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You lying bastard,” she accused, sliding off the bonnet to point at him. “You said we was in this together. I lie for you, steal for you, do everything I can to help you. All you do is tell me I can’t be trusted.”

“Mia—”

“Hey, _vete a la chingada_ , man.” She turned to walk away.

A black van appeared from their right, driving slowly toward them like a shark through inky black waters. Santiago put a boot behind her, then again, until she was backed up against their own van.

Ortiguez dropped to the ground. He cleared his throat and straightened up.

The van came to a stop. The engine died and the side door slid back - gradually. A gun barrel appeared from the edge nearest them.

Santiago didn’t think. She pushed blindly at the man next to her. “Run, man!”

“Stop!”

She shut both her eyes but otherwise froze.

Ortiguez put his hands up and released himself from her grip.

A voice cut the cold car park. “Show me your hands. Both of you.”

Ortiguez let her go and put both palms up. He nudged Santiago’s shoulder. She opened her eyes and turned carefully, toward the voice behind the gun.

“Show me yours first,” she snapped.

Ortiguez rolled his eyes.

But he heard a quiet chuckling. “Oh-ho, quite the little boss,” said the voice.

“You here for phones or dead bodies?” Santiago demanded. “Cos only one of those turns a profit.”

The gun barrel went up, pointing at the sky. “I _like_ you,” the voice said. “I think I’ll take… the smartphones. They in your luxury ride, there?”

She turned, realised Ortiguez still had his hands up, and slapped down his right.

“Yeah. Let’s see your money,” he said, hastily putting his hands in his pockets.

“Fair enough. Twenty-five grand, right?”

“Fifty,” Santiago said. “The deal was for fifty.”

“The last time someone tried to buy from you, the police spoilt everything.” The voice paused. “Thirty.”

Santiago and Ortiguez looked at each other. He turned back to the blackness of the open van door. “Forty.”

“Thirty-five,” the voice said.

“No way,” Santiago snapped.

The gun levelled itself at her again. “Consider the figure thirty-five again. It’s a nice round number, and if it isn’t amenable to you, then I leave and you can try to flog your cute little cellphones to some other player.”

“ _Smart_ phones,” Ortiguez blustered.

Santiago turned and looked at him. Then she turned her back to the gun, sliding closer to his ear. “Say yes. Thirty-five and the goods gone is better than whoever that is just leaving us here.”

Ortiguez took a deep breath. He shook his head, looking at his feet. “But I wanted a round fifty to impress the boss.”

“Did you forget what we’re _also_ here for?” she hissed. “If your friends or mine don’t show, we take the money and get rid of the good.”

He folded his arms. “Ok. Fine.” She turned back round, and Ortiguez straightened up. “Ok,” he said more loudly, “we’ll take thirty-five. But you gotta unload.”

A chuckle floated across the night air. “Oh Mr Ortiguez - you’re throwing the van in for free.”

He sighed. “Yeah, why not,” he muttered. He looked up. “Where’s the money, man?”

A black running shoe appeared from out of the van, followed by a whole male about six feet tall. He eyed the two of them before walking straight for the driver’s side of their vehicle.

“Hey,” Ortiguez said, walking into his path. “Where’s the money?”

“Do I look like I got money?” the man replied, putting a hand out and smoothing him to one side. “I’m just the driver.”

They looked back at the van. This time a white Chelsea boot didn’t so much venture out of the truck but decide that it was here to conquer this mountain. A pair of white trousers and a sharp jacket followed, topped off by long brown hair coiffed into a very expensive, very commanding wave of Angela Basset proportions.

“Whoa,” Ortiguez managed with the last of his breath, his eyes on the vision of beautiful danger.

Santiago’s eyes, however, were still on the gun in the woman’s hand. “Money?” she asked clearly.

“You are a very focused individual,” the woman said. “If you get tired of playing with your tiny band here, you let me know. I could use someone like you.”

“I ain’t for being used.”

“That… I can see,” she replied, with thought. She snapped her free fingers and a briefcase was thrown out of the van door behind her. It landed on the tarmac with a dull thud. “Thirty-five grand.”

“You recounted and got it in there in like two minutes flat?” Santiago asked sarcastically.

“My people work fast,” she countered. “Believe me or don’t - I don’t care. I’m taking the van, and you’re taking the case.”

The van engine started up behind them. “Yes,” Ortiguez said instantly. “Yes we are.”

“Then it’s been a pleasure doing business,” she said.

“Who _are_ you?” Santiago asked.

“I’m leaving. Enjoy your money. If I don’t get out of here with the van and the phones, you will _not_ live long enough to count it,” she said pleasantly. She turned and climbed back into her own transport.

Santiago immediately went to the case and picked it up. She backed away as the two vans began to slowly wheel around to aim back toward the road.

“What about your DEA friend?” Ortiguez hissed. “I thought you told her to come.”

“Well hey, I don’t see any Tongs, either,” she hissed back.

He opened his mouth. He paused. “Hey…”

Santiago looked at him. “What?”

His head tilted. He frowned. He looked back at her. “You hear that?”

ooOoo

Murtaugh found himself on the roof and his blood pressure about a hundred yards above _that_. “Riggs,” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “What are we doing up here?”

“Get down.” Riggs was already lying out on his front, just a few feet from the edge of the mostly-flat roof. “We’re watching.”

Murtaugh got to his hands and knees. He crept up alongside his partner, stopping by Riggs’ big boots. He eyed the dirt, grime and general unsavouriness of the roof, then his white shirt currently cowering in fear under his biker jacket. With a sigh that spoke volumes on unfairness and laundry duties, he forced himself to drop flat to his front and inch up next to the other man’s elbow. “Now what?”

“Sshh. Watch.”

Murtaugh glanced at him and realised he was holding a gun’s sniper sight to his one eye. He followed his gaze to the parking lot below and squinted. “Is that Danny?”

“Yeah that’s Danny. And look who’s with him.”

“I can’t see that far,” he grumped.

“Ok old man, calm down,” Riggs grinned. “It’s Mia.”

“What’s _she_ doing here?”

“At a guess…” He paused as a black vehicle appeared. “Waiting for a buyer for the cellphones in the back of their van.”

“You mean the actual, _real_ phones that Wabash got out of evidence as a lure? _Those_ phones?”

“No. I’m sure they’re completely different phones,” Riggs said without missing a beat.

“If those phones leave the area and we don’t get them back? Wabash is done.”

“Tell me something I _don’t_ know, Roger.”

“You can do laundry in the comfort of your own home with technology that we like to call a ‘washing machine’.”

Riggs let the sight down, turning his look of abject consternation on him. “You’re not helping.”

“Let’s get off this roof and help _down there_.”

Riggs put the sight back to his eye and looked out over the car park. “Wait. Someone’s getting out of the van. It’s… a man. Tall. He’s getting in Danny’s van. Oh - money. I think.”

“Money? What money? What’s happening?”

“Looks like… Like Tina Turner is literally throwing them money to take the whole van.”

“Tina Turner?”

“Yeah like… a mid-seventies Tina, white suit, killer hair.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sshh.” He continued to watch. Murtaugh continued to fume. “Wait…” Riggs said quietly. “It’s done. Her guy’s driving their van away.”

“Then where’s Wabash? Why is she not busting in there, arresting Tina Turner? She must have her red-handed.”

“Sshh.”

“No, I mean it - where is—”

“ _Sshh_ ,” Riggs hissed, louder this time. “You hear something?”

“All I hear is the wet dirt soaking into my shirt.”

Riggs pushed himself to his elbows. He backed away from the edge - then turned and leapt up. He sprinted back toward the ladder without looking back.

Murtaugh rolled to his side to look across the roof. “What are you—.” A _crack_ made him jump. And then he too scrambled to his feet and ran for the ladder.


	7. Chapter 7

Wabash fired - and then again.

The black van simply aimed for her. She heard voices and gunfire as she threw herself to her right. She dropped her gun to grip a safety rail above her head. Her arms yanked, her knees pulled up as hard as they could - there was an almighty crash and squeal from beneath her. Heat, the rush of air - it skimmed her hip as she clung to the wall.

More voices, more gunshots. She gasped in air, opened her eyes - her fingers gave and her boots plummeted to the ground.

The next thing she heard was a voice behind her. Something grabbed her upper arm.

She lifted the attached elbow and whirled into her assailant. An awful _crack_ told her she had put her full weight into the blow.

“What the hell!”

She finished her turn, her hands up ready to defend herself. She paused. “Oh.”

Murtaugh, ten feet away, was breathing hard, a gun in his fingers but both palms on his knees.

Riggs, however, was on his back on the ground right next to her, one hand to his nose.

“You… were… attempting to help me,” she realised.

“Well that’s what I was going for, but apparently the last thing you needed was anyone’s help,” Riggs managed. He lifted his hand to reveal blood spurting from his nose.

“What have I done?” she gasped.

“You Rhonda Rousey’d my partner in the face,” Murtaugh said, straightening up. “Normally I’d agree with you, but I think he was trying to help you up.”

“I understand that _now_ ,” she said, an edge to her voice. She went straight to Riggs’ side and grabbed his hands, pulling them free of his face. “Let me see.”

“I don’t think it’s broken,” he groaned.

She gently put her hands to either side of his nose. He grunted something and stiffened. “I think it’s broken.”

“Hey, Rog?” he called. “Remind me never to try to help anyone ever again.”

“He doesn’t mean that,” Murtaugh said.

“I am sorry, Detective,” she said loudly. “I was in the wrong.”

Riggs lay back, feeling warm blood slide down his throat. “To be honest… I’ve had worse.”

“I reacted instinctively and I have hurt you; I am sorry,” she added, more quietly.

“Instinctive reactions will do that to you,” he groaned.

Murtaugh came up to her side. “What went down tonight, Wabash? What just happened? Did you know Tina Turner would be here and is that why you came alone?”

“Tina Turner?” she asked, clearly confused.

Riggs grinned from the safety of the damp asphalt. “Y’know, like mid-seventies Tina Turner. But in a white suit.”

“And with killer hair,” Murtaugh put in.

“Oh, I understand,” Wabash said. Her hands went to Riggs’ arm and she pulled. “You must sit up, Detective. I will call for an ambulance.”

“No no,” he said, hauling himself to a sitting position. He scraped hair from his eye, trapping it to the back of his head. “It’s just a broken nose. I can walk into Emergency.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” she argued. “If you insist on not taking an ambulance then I will drive you.”

“No, you’re good,” he said with a wide smile. “That’s what Rog is for.”

“You know what? Let’s _all_ go,” Murtaugh said. “And while we’re going, you can fill us in, Agent Wabash.”

She helped Riggs to his feet. And as she went back to the side of the warehouse wall to retrieve her fallen gun, Riggs and Murtaugh exchanged a glance that was all to do with a wary understanding of the level to which the situation was screwed.

ooOoo

Wabash folded her arms, as her calm boots took her past the door to the treatment room and back up to Murtaugh’s chair. She paused, then turned and did another width of the corridor. And again.

“Hey. Don’t take this the wrong way,” Murtaugh said, “but you’re wearing me out. _Please_ sit down.”

“I cannot,” she said simply. “I am processing.”

“Well while you’re processing, I’m getting more and more irritated.”

“A broken nose is not serious,” she stated. “However, it is an inconvenience and it was through no fault of his own. He was simply trying to help me up.”

“He gets that. Trust me, if anyone can shrug off a punch to the face, it’s Martin Riggs.” He sighed. “Sit down.”

She paused to look at him.

“Please?” he asked, all cookie eyes and soft need. Every ounce of cat-like innocence and longing he possessed, or indeed was ever going to possess, was poured into his eyes like heart-rending piano music over a tragic painting.

Wabash’s head tilted. Then she turned away and kept pacing.

The door to the treatment room opened. A woman in a white coat appeared, nodded to them both, and walked off.

Wabash was the first to the door. “Detective?” she asked.

Riggs was picking up his shirt and jacket from the treatment gurney, his undamaged hand raking his hair out of his one eye. “Hey, Rocky,” he smiled. “Give me a minute before you start on me, ok? It’s been hours since I had a drink and the hangovers are all queueing up to kick me in the danglies with their best boots on, you get me?”

She stepped back without a word. He pulled his olive t-shirt straight before carrying his shirt and jacket past her to the door.

“Hey, Rog,” he managed.

Murtaugh looked at him and just felt himself crumple. Riggs’ jeans and his t-shirt had borne the brunt of his wriggling around first in mud and grime atop a warehouse, and then casual blood spillage and wet tarmac. His hair looked like it had lost the will to live several days ago, and now could not care any less where it fell. The bandage round his left hand was completely tattered but determined to hang in there, the patch over his eye the recipient of new tape. His nose looked a tiny bit swollen but had already begun to cause purple bruising under both eyes.

“You are _not_ coming to dinner looking like that,” Murtaugh managed.

Riggs looked down at himself. “Ye-ah… Trish might have a heart attack.”

“ _I_ might have a heart attack,” Murtaugh argued. “Just… go home. Sleep. Without the aid of alcohol - just this once, ok? Do it for me,” he pleaded.

“Whatever you say, Rog,” he managed quietly.

Murtaugh looked at his watch. “You want me to run you home?”

“No you go on - you got kids and stuff.”

“Well alright then. But sleep in tomorrow, ok?” Murtaugh warned.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, his gaze on his boots.

Murtaugh looked at Wabash. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll straighten out this whole thing. But for tonight - what’s left of it - we all get some rest.” He paused until she looked at him. “Deal?”

“Deal, Detective,” she said earnestly.

He looked back at Riggs, but he simply waved a hand at him. Murtaugh nodded and walked off down the corridor.

Wabash put her hands behind her back. “I will give you a ride to your home. It’s the least I could do.”

“Look, no offence, but I can get home without—”

“This is the same as elbowing me in the face,” she interrupted.

“What?” he spluttered.

“You offered me help and I struck you in the face out of an instinctive reaction - something I regretted the moment I realised what I had done.” She paused. “I am offering you help now, and you are rejecting it out of the same instinctive reaction.”

His mouth worked for a moment, then his head canted to one side like a dog trying to work out what a door handle is for.

“And I know where the all-night liquor store is,” she added.

He smiled. “Well hey. Let’s maybe swing by there while you’re giving me that ride home.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

ooOoo

Murtaugh crept in through the back door, yanking off his shoes to let his socks take him silently across the kitchen. He tackled the stairs with amazing stealth before reaching the upper landing and pausing.

“I _am_ a goddamn ninja,” he whispered.

The bedroom door opened and Trish’s head poked out. “You’re what now?”

He sighed. ”Busted.”

“Uh-uh. Get in here. You look like you need some decent sleep,” she whispered. He nodded, drifting toward her. She pulled the door fully open and watched him trundle past her. “Bad night?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“You ok?”

“Yep.”

“Is Martin ok?”

“He’s alive.”

She closed the door behind him. “We’ll check on him tomorrow,” she said wisely. “For now, get in that bed and sleep.”

“Yes ma’am,” he managed, unbuttoning his shirt.

ooOoo

The trailer door opened and Riggs waved a hand. “Ladies first.”

Wabash went up the steps and into the tiny living space. Her gaze went over everything slowly until she turned to her right and sat on the couch.

He carried a bag in with him, setting it on the table in front of her and closing the door. “I got a corkscrew round here somewhere.”

“No need,” she said.

He looked at her - just looked. She put a hand in the bag and rescued a bottle of red wine. As he watched, entranced, her other hand went into her jeans pocket for her car keys. She flipped up the ignition key, jabbed it straight through the plastic cover into the top of the cork at a forty-five degree angle, and proceeded to lever the cork out with a fair amount of effort and a lot of intent.

After a minute or so it gave a pop and propelled itself off her car key and onto the floor.

Riggs looked at it, then her, then back at the floor. “Uh…”

“I have made a mess. Again. I apologise.” She got up.

He put a hand out. “No… it’s fine,” he said. He grinned suddenly. “I’ve never seen anyone do that before.”

“It’s simple physics.” She sat down again.

“If you say so.” He bent and picked up the cork before tossing it toward the sink. “Now all we need is glasses - unless you have a lifehack for that, too.”

“It’s called drinking out of the bottle.”

He laughed - threw his head back and _laughed_.

“Oh. Have I said something… inappropriate?” she asked quietly.

He wiped an eye and put a hand on his hip, leaning into the sink and drainer unit. “No - you’re good.”

“I am many things, Detective, but I don’t think I’m ‘good’,” she said miserably. “Hours ago I broke your nose.”

“Yeah, man, but it was a clean break. I’ll survive.”

“Yes, you will. But you will do it with a broken nose.”

“Well hey, most of us are broken in some way or other, right?” he grinned, going to the plastic carrier bag and taking out a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“That is true.” She paused, then looked forlornly at her wine bottle.

“Seriously - I got glasses here somewhere.” He turned away hastily, upending empty packets, pizza boxes, dog food bags. Eventually he found a glass tumbler and washed it carefully. “So I didn’t know you were a wine fan,” he said over his shoulder. “I pictured you more of a Southern Comfort kinda person.”

“It’s all just alcohol, in different proportions and flavours.”

“That _is_ true.” He dried off the glass and came back over, handing it to her.

She took it gratefully and poured a good three inches into it, putting the bottle back on the table.

He found himself another glass - this one a squat, roundish affair with unfamiliar markings on the sides. He washed it out before helping himself to the Jack Daniels. He plonked the bottle down on the table and then stepped over it, landing heavily on the couch.

She looked at him from barely three feet away. “Is it a competition?”

“Excuse me?”

“A competition. Do you and your partner compete for how much physical damage you can withstand?”

He chuckled. “Hell no. Roger’s… not into physical harm.”

“And you?”

“I just seem to get in the way a lot.”

She sipped at her wine, and he realised she was perched on the edge of the sofa as if under interrogation.

“Look, Wabash,” he said quietly.

“Emily. My name is Emily. No-one knows that.”

“Well _I_ know,” he said. He sipped his whiskey. “Emily… What happened tonight? What’s really going on?”

“What’s going on is… I am in serious trouble.”

His eyebrows raised all themselves. “Why?”

“I… am… failing.”

“At?”

“My job. Life. All of it.”

He hissed before taking another sip. “Well aren’t we all.”

She looked back at him. “I envy you. You can take solace in alcohol, let it numb you to everything so you can pretend to be happy - and believe it - for a short time. But I cannot. I’m not… built that way.”

“I know a real nice lady who’d just love to spend an afternoon with you.”

“Is she a shrink?”

His mouth slapped shut in surprise. He grouped. “Yes.”

“Ah. I see. I have burdened you with something that makes you uncomfortable.”

“You know,” he began loudly, before taking another drink, “I think that was another elbow in the face.”

She sipped her wine, then gradually, her back bowed and she relaxed into the couch. Her head rested back on the soft cushions and she sighed. “I think you’re right.”

“I also think… you’re not supposed to be here.”

“I can leave.”

“No, I mean… here in L.A. Here at the cop-shop.”

“Well I am DEA, not a cop.”

“No… You don’t want us to speak to your higher-ups, you don’t want us to put you being here on record… Something tells me that you don’t want anyone to know you’re here. From your own department, I mean.” He took another drink. “You didn’t call your own people for back-up tonight, or even a proper SWAT team. Instead you called two LAPD detectives. Why?”

“My superiors are interested in results, not progress reports. At the moment the only result is effectively giving away a batch of very expensive formerly impounded smartphones and no arrests.”

“I don’t think you’re _supposed_ to be making arrests. Why is that?” He sniffed, appraising his half-empty glass. “You’re not _on_ this case, are you? You’re not supposed to have anything to do with Ortiguez, or Tina Turner. Why is that?”

She sipped her wine. “I had calculated your tolerance for alcohol much lower. I thought one glass of neat whiskey and you would fall asleep, avoiding such a conversation.”

“Well your calculation skills suck, I’m here to tell you.”

“That much is certain.”

He sat forward, draining his glass and reaching for the bottle. “Tell me.”

“Not right now. But one day.”

“Fine.” He refilled his glass, then glanced at hers to find it almost empty. “You want more?”

“I am planning on finishing the bottle.”

“Good girl,” he grinned.

She relaxed back into the couch again, even as she emptied her glass. “This is a very… comfortable home.”

“What, this?” he managed. “It’s not bad.”

“It must be nice to be so alone.”

He paused, his face falling. “Well…”

“I prefer to be alone. People think I’m lonely. But I’m just… alone.” She sat forward suddenly, surprising him. Then then refilled her wine glass and sat back, turning round to watch him. “I am truly sorry about your nose.”

“Really, it’s fine. It’s just work.”

“You’re not a SEAL any more, Detective. If you get hurt at work you don’t ‘walk it off, soldier’.”

“How did you know I was a SEAL?”

She sniffed, as if to herself. “People talk. And when you’re shot at you shout ‘contact fore’. And you still have the Live Weapon Elbow.”

“The Live Weapon Elbow?” he grinned. “What’s that?”

“You know,” she said, putting down her glass. “You hold your loaded weapon with the muzzle pointed down, as all detectives do, but you do it as if you think it weighs the same as a sniper rifle. It does not.”

He grinned. “Well ain’t you good at this. You should be a detective.”

She shrugged. “Now that you have been discharged, you should remember that if you are injured, you don’t have to continue working. You are in the public sector now, Detective. You can just… take a day off. The government will _pay_ you to get better before you return to work.”

“A day off?” he asked, confused.

“Yes. You take a day off and… do whatever it is you do when you get a day off.” She paused. “What _do_ you do? I mean besides drink.”

He smiled. “I got a beach, I got a roof, and I got weapons and beer bottles. All I need.”

She sipped her wine, watching him grin at her. Then her face _frowned_. “You shoot bottles from the roof of your trailer? That is a dreadful waste of recyclable glass - not to mention a safety hazard. The sand around here must be _littered_ with glass shards.”

“Well what do _you_ do?”

“Try to stay away from people,” she shrugged. “They don’t understand me, and I don’t understand them. Oh, the _say_ they do and a lot of them try, but in the end they all brand me a variation of ‘weird’ and invent reasons to avoid me. Especially at work.”

He shook his head, then drained his glass. “Well I think you’re weird.”

She sagged slightly. “I am not surprised.”

“No - that’s a good thing,” he said, reaching again for his own bottle. “Everyone’s weird somehow. Weird is _good_. Weird is _fun_.”

“I’ve _never_ been called ‘fun’ before.”

“You work with some real assholes,” he said seriously, before filling his glass.

“You are very direct,” she nodded. She sipped her wine. “It’s a good thing.”

“Yep. We’re just two very awesome people - both misunderstood, multi-talented, smart weirdos,” he grinned. She smiled - something that made him pause. He grinned wider, lifting a finger from his glass to point at her. “Hey - you have a sense of humour! No-one warned me you had a sense of humour!”

“And no-one told me that you were such a gentleman.”

His face dropped. “You think I brought you here for—. For something else?”

“What something else?” she asked, confused. “No, I mean you are a gentleman. You think about other people’s feelings, even though your face says you do not.”

“Well I didn’t always. My wife made me better at that,” he smiled.

“I presume… she is not around any more?”

“She’s not,” he said slowly. “She passed away.”

“And again, I have elbowed you in the nose,” she sighed.

He reached up and patted a hand on her shoulder. “No, you didn’t.”

“Can I… Can I tell you something? You can refuse to listen.”

“What?” He wet his lips quickly, then took another drink. “I’m not great at making anyone feel better, but… I can listen ok.”

She finished her wine in a gulp, then put the glass on the table. She glared at it. “My brother passed away. It’s been three years. But I still miss him. I still miss _having_ a brother. And when I have made so many mistakes in a short period of time, and all to you, I just…” She looked at him. “You remind me of him. I mean he was Potawatomi Kansas Indian like me and didn’t have your moustache or crazy hair, but… The energy is the same.”

“You mean he was constantly drunk too?”

She let herself smile. “No. He was always looking out for vulnerable people.”

He opened his mouth but nothing wanted to escape and muddy the waters.

“I just…” She looked at her hands. “I have been holding on for a long time. And I think I just want to let go. Just for a little while.”

“I uh… I may know what you mean.” He swallowed, then clawed his hair out of his eye. He sat forward, refilled both their glasses, then settled back into the corner of the sofa. “I’ll do you a deal.”

“What?” she asked, picking up her glass.

“We trade stories. One each, till those bottles are empty.”

She looked at them, then over at him. She pushed herself up the couch, slouched into his side, and was immeasurably comforted as he put his free arm round her to keep her warm and close. “And then?” she asked.

“And then we never tell anyone about this. Especially not my shrink.”

She thought it over. “If I were your sister… would we do the same?”

“If I had you for a sister? I think I’d get into less fights.”

“ _Fewer_ fights.”

“See?”

She shifted to be more comfortable. “I’ll go first.”

“Be my guest.”

“So, my brother Beshkno and I were climbing a tree. He was ten, and I was six. We climbed to the top before our grandmother came out of the house and screamed at us to get down.”

“Grandma? What about your parents?”

“I never met them,” she said easily. “Anyway, she had planted that tree on the res when she was young, and she didn’t want us ruining it.”

“And you two fell out.”

“Beshkno did - I stuck to it like Spider-Man,” she said, hearing him laugh. “I was so good at staying _in_ the tree that they called the res sheriff to get me out. We didn’t have a fire truck. I was never allowed near a tree again - not until I’d moved to a city. I was twenty-three years old and I climbed a tree in Kansas City, Missouri. I was very nearly arrested.” She enjoyed his laugh, the comfort of their situation. “And now you can ask me questions.”

“I only have _one_ question.”

“And that is?”

“Do you want to try shooting beer bottles from the roof of this trailer sometime? Something tells me you’d be a natural.”

“And pepper the public domain with dangerous glass? No, thank you. It goes against what it is to be a law enforcement officer.”

“Well don’t say I didn’t ask.”

“Don’t say I didn’t genuinely consider it. And the only reason I said no was public safety.” She paused. “Anyway. Your turn.”

He smiled. “So it’s Christmas, right? And I’ve never met my girlfriend’s parents - she wasn’t my wife yet.”

“Hence why you called her your ‘girlfriend’. Continue.”

“Well apparently they have this thing where you trick the boyfriend into wearing a seriously _hideous_ Christmas sweater.”

“You wore it?”

“Dude, I would have worn _anything_ for her if she’d asked.”

She smiled, rubbing her cheek against his shirt. “Continue.”

He did.

They drank.

And as dawn began to think about waking up the horizon, they passed into much-overdue sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Wabash leant over the desk, her hands behind her back, peering down at the photographs.

“Do any of these help?” Avery asked, his hands in his pockets as he studied her.

She gave a ‘hmm’ before straightening up. “I can identify this woman.”

“You can? Great,” he said, pulling his hands free and clapping them together. “She’s been on our board a few times but we’ve never got a name.”

“Maria Jackson,” she announced. “She deals in very black market goods. I should have known she would take any deal that Danny was selling.”

He nodded. “Right. I’ll get our guys on it. She’s wanted by us, too, so we can collaborate on any info we have, right?”

“I would appreciate that, Captain,” she nodded quietly.

The glass door swung open and Murtaugh helped himself to the carpeted area as if Trish herself had given him permission. “All I’m saying is, you suddenly decide to go out and buy your own breakfast - but you’ve never bought _me_ any,” he was calling over his shoulder.

“That’s because you have your own kitchen and a wife who knows the right stuff to keep in it. And if she knew I’d given you bacon she’d grill me alive,” Riggs said merrily, following him in. “Oh, morning folks!” he grinned. Avery just watched, his mouth slightly open, as Riggs unloaded four take-out coffees from the totem in his right hand, then turned and offered a brown paper bag to Wabash. “Get into that. It’ll do you good,” he said.

She did not turn. Her hand went out and she took the bag without looking. “Hot sauce?”

“You think I’d get you breakfast _without_ hot sauce?” he grinned.

She opened the bag, unwrapped something suspiciously burrito-shaped, and bit into it. She chewed for a second, Murtaugh and Avery watching with horrified fascination. Then she froze, an altogether uncertain look on her face.

“Huh? What’d I tell you? Huh?” Riggs grinned with the excitement of a four-year-old.

She turned slowly to look at him. “You are correct.”

He grinned and put his hands on his hips, swaying to pin such a smug, gloating expression on Murtaugh and then Avery that they both just fell into a chair each.

“What is happening?” Avery asked quietly.

“I am identifying the smartphone buyer from last night,” Wabash said innocently. She took another bite and chomped on it with a purpose. Then she again leant over the photos.

“And _we_ brought you news on the car that tried to turn Emily into roadkill last night,” Riggs nodded. He pulled a folded-over manilla file from his rear jeans pocket.

“Emily?” Avery prompted.

“Here,” Wabash said, putting up a hand in pre-occupation.

Murtaugh and Avery shared a look.

“See? It’s Tongs,” Riggs said, sliding a few photographs free and sitting them next to each other in front of Avery.

“How do you know that?” he marvelled.

“Because Cruz checked it out for me this morning - that is a ‘known car’, as he called it. It runs a lot of lights, parks where it shouldn’t, does dodgy deals all over town, provides getaways… all the good stuff.”

“Tell me we’re lucky - that we know who the car belongs to,” Avery said.

“Get this,” Riggs grinned. “John Lee.”

“John Lee?” Murtaugh asked. “Then let’s go to Chinatown and ask a few people where John Lee is.”

“Rog,” Riggs sighed. “John Lee is… everyone. He’s no-one. You might as well go looking for John Doe.”

“John Lee is John Doe?” he asked, confused.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Wabash said. “Martin is correct; you will never find the real owner of that vehicle. However, it does suggest that Tongs are involved.”

Murtaugh looked at Avery as he mouthed the word ‘Martin’.

Avery shrugged, helpless.

“So what do we do now?” Murtaugh asked, turning to look at Riggs.

“Well I think we should go look for the car. Someone’s gotta have it in their garage, right? I mean it’s going to need a new wing and probably a rear window after Emily shot it out last night,” Riggs nodded.

She straightened up, the burrito in her mouth. “I did,” she realised. “I was aiming for the back of the driver’s head.”

Riggs put an arm round her, squeezing her to his side and grinning. “That’s my girl.”

Murtaugh and Avery’s eyes went round and found each other in mutual disbelief.

“So let’s go find a car,” Riggs said, letting her go and aiming for the door.

Wabash fished a napkin from the bag and wiped her mouth carefully. She swallowed and then looked at Murtaugh. “I believe you would be a better driver,” she said.

He got to his feet. “You’re damn right I’m the better driver,” he said, pulling his jacket straight.

Avery watched them move to the door. “Roger,” he called.

He paused as Wabash ducked under his arm and disappeared out into the office. “Yeah?”

“Just… watch out for those two. Make sure they don’t cause too much trouble. Chinatown’s already upset with us from the last time the LAPD let one of our men interfere down there. —And that’s when he was being chaperoned with a detective from Hong Kong. Just don’t let ‘Emily’ and ‘Martin’ make too much of a mess.”

Murtaugh shrugged. “I always try, Captain.”

Avery rolled his eyes.

Murtaugh left the office sharpish.

ooOoo

“You know, we could just ask Danny,” Riggs said from the front passenger seat.

Murtaugh, currently paying strict attention to the traffic, sighed. “What’s he going to say? ‘Oh yeah fellas - I sold the whole lot of ex-impounded smartphones to Tina Turner for a tidy profit’?”

“I doubt very much he would call Maria Jackson ‘Tina Turner’,” Wabash said from the back seat.

“You reckon he’s more of a Pam Grier man?” Riggs asked.

“I would not know,” she said. “However I do not believe he would have contact details for her.”

“Then how did he set up the meet?” Murtaugh asked.

“Mia Santiago,” she said simply. She looked out of the window, watching the streets fly by. “When we get to Chinatown, it may be helpful if I did the talking.”

“You say that like I’m unable to speak to people,” Riggs said. “I’d be offended except…”

“I’m right?” she said smoothly.

He grinned, pulled off his sunglasses, and bit on the arm as he looked out of the window. Murtaugh cleared his throat. “So… what actually went down last night?” he asked carefully.

“I was approaching the two vans as they were leaving,” Wabash said. “Another car appeared and attempted to run me over. I shot at the driver through the rear window.”

“No, _after_ that,” Murtaugh said. “Where did you two go? Together?”

“I went to Martin’s home,” she said simply. “We drank a lot and then we slept together.”

Murtaugh slammed on the brakes. The car swerved up onto the empty pavement and squealed to a stop, horns of other road users blaring. “You did _what?_ ”

“I told you he’d be like this,” Riggs sniffed. “He gets jealous. He can’t help it.”

Murtaugh pushed the car slowly into Park. Then he turned in the driver’s seat to glare at Wabash. “I thought you were a professional,” he snapped.

“Oh relax, Rog,” Riggs said, slapping the back of his hand into his arm. “She means we drank until we passed out. Big deal. Tell me you’ve never done that with another officer.”

“Never in their _home_ ,” he blustered.

“Whatever. Look, are we going to Chinatown or what, here? That car ain’t going to find itself.”

Murtaugh’s mouth worked for a moment. Then he checked his mirrors, pushed the car into Drive, and sailed back out into the traffic. “Drank until you passed out,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Riggs looked up at the sun visor in front of him. He pulled it down and looked into the mirror. Shifting to his right, he found Wabash watching his reflection.

He winked.

She winked back.

ooOoo

She wiped her hands on a rag, standing back from the car and nodding to herself. “It’s ok,” she said, glancing at the young man next to her. “Not a bad job. You want to stay for a week? Clean some more cars for me?”

The young lad nodded. “Yes please, boss.”

“Ok. You stay till Saturday. If you’re good, we pay you. If you’re not… We _don’t_.”

“Yes boss,” he grinned.

She smiled. “Ok, go. Get rid of your cleaning kit here, wash out all the sponges properly.”

He raced around her and started to collect up buckets, rags, polishing clothes.

She walked across the open garage to the office, reaching in and picking up a packet of cigarettes. She pulled the lighter out from inside, then walked leisurely toward the L.A. sunshine out of the front of the shop. She went a few feet off to the side, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag.

“Those are supposed to kill you, you know,” said a male voice.

She looked around to see three people approaching from the pavement. A smile crossed her face as she looked them up and down. “Well well well. What’s this? You look like a bad joke - a white guy, a black guy and an indigenous woman walk into a garage. What do you want? A punchline or a detail clean?”

“Hello,” Wabash said, walking out in front. “We would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Well I wouldn’t like to answer. Now what?” she asked.

“Are you Lucy Wong, owner of this garage?” Wabash asked.

She looked Wabash up and down. “Is she in trouble?”

“Nothing she can be arrested for,” Wabash said.

Lucy grinned. “Then it’s me. Seriously, are you in charge of these two? What is this, day care or punishment?”

Wabash twisted to look behind her, finding Riggs and Murtaugh watching them with identical clueless faces. She looked back at Lucy. “The jury is still out.”

Lucy grinned, taking another drag on her cigarette. “What can I do you for?”

“We’re looking for a black Chevy,” Wabash said. “Licence plate 6GDC487, apparently belonging to one John Lee.”

Lucy chuckled. “Of course you are.” She took another puff. “Why ask me?”

“You have the best garage.”

“You’re not bad at this,” she smiled.

“No, seriously - your garage is the most likely to harbour or repair stolen cars,” Wabash said politely.

“What she means is, this place sounds like fun. May I?” Riggs asked, side-stepping them and wandering into the open workshop.

“Uh - I’m with him,” Murtaugh said, hurrying after him.

“You don’t have a warrant,” Lucy called over her shoulder.

“Hey, we’re just appreciatin’ the cool cars you have here,” Riggs called back. He lifted both palms in surrender. “We’re not even on police business. Are we, Rog?”

“Nope,” Murtaugh said. “Oooh look - nice,” he said, crouching as he came upon the driver’s side of a black Maserati. “And just waxed, too.”

“Ah ah ah - don’t touch,” Riggs said. “You don’t want to make it dirty.”

Lucy shook her head at Wabash. “I haven’t seen the car you want,” she said. “Try Chan’s place - two blocks from here. You can’t miss it - he has like five stolen cars outside on any given day.”

Wabash looked at her boots, then over at the two men currently picking up idle instruments and wandering aimlessly through power tools and cables. “Miss Wong… If you come across the car at any point, would you let me know?”

“And why would I do that?” she asked.

“Because the people driving it shoot at police officers. If they do that, I doubt very much they would pay their repair bills.” She stood back, put a finger and thumb in her mouth, and let out a piercing whistle.

Riggs’ head snapped round and he pushed at Murtaugh’s shoulder. They emerged from the depths of the garage into perfect sunshine. Riggs slipped his sunglasses on as Lucy raised her eyebrows.

“Not bad,” she said, turning to Wabash.

“I’m better with guns,” she shrugged. She turned to walk away.

Lucy grinned, then began to chuckle. “Hey, Indian girl,” she called. Wabash looked back at her. Lucy walked up to her, one hand in her pocket. “Look… If I _did_ know where the car was… what’s it worth?”

“Not getting shot,” Riggs said from behind her. “I mean not for nothing but these Tongs are a bunch of merciless bastards when they want to be.”

Lucy froze for a long second. Then she turned to him. “Tongs?”

“Or… something. Hey, I don’t know,” he said hastily. “It could be Wongs for all I know.”

Lucy stepped back slowly. “Sure. Ok. You’d better leave now. I got work to do.”

“And the car?” Wabash asked.

“Never seen it,” Lucy said firmly. She turned to walk away.

“你講大話,” Wabash called after her.

Lucy stopped. She didn’t turn. “哦, 係咩? 你點知咖?”

Riggs and Murtaugh watched cluelessly as Wabash walked up to her. “Because you want them to be investigated, so that they at least stand a chance of being arrested,” she said firmly. “Who’s to know _where_ a tip could come from these days?”

Lucy flicked her cigarette butt to the pavement. She looked at her. “Take a walk, Detectives. We’re closing soon.”

Wabash opened her mouth but Lucy turned away. She stalked off toward the doors, calling at someone. The large rollers began to drop as she ducked under and into the encroaching darkness.

“Whoops,” Murtaugh said, then turned and walked back to the kerb, and his car beyond.

Riggs put his hands on his hips and watched the rollers clank down into place, effectively shutting the garage for the day. “Now that - that’s just being unhelpful.”

Wabash turned on him. “Tongs?” she demanded.

He nearly jumped. “What?”

“ _Tongs?_ ” she fumed. She reached up and smacked him over the back of the head. “ _Bgwenoze_. Get in the car.”

He gaped as she walked off. “Hey,” he protested, following her back to Murtaugh’s car. “Did you just call me a bad word?”

“In the car, Riggs!” Murtaugh called from the driver’s seat.

“She called me a bad word!” he said in surprise, opening the passenger door.

“Well who in L.A. hasn’t?” Murtaugh said with a shit-eating grin.

Riggs tutted at him. As Murtaugh started the car and merged back into traffic, Wabash wound her window down slightly. She watched a few blocks go by before Riggs cleared his throat. “Who was this other guy she mentioned? Chan somebody?” he asked hopefully.

“It was a joke,” Wabash said. “There _is_ no Chan’s garage.”

“And since when do you speak Chinese?” Murtaugh asked without looking up from the road. “That was awesome, right?”

“It _was_ awesome,” Riggs said with a nod.

“It’s just another language,” she said quietly.

“But you were really good - like a second language,” Murtaugh grinned.

“ _English_ is my second language,” she said irritably. “Now be quiet so I can work out how to explain the loss of impounded smartphones to both the LAPD and the DEA.”

It went silent. Riggs and Murtaugh dared to glance at each other - once.

The ride back to the station was an uncomfortable one.

ooOoo

Murtaugh clicked on the ‘save’ icon and sat back from the desk. “Well that’s my version. How’s yours coming?” he asked.

There was no answer. He scooted his chair to the left to find Riggs with his feet on the desk, a pencil clamped sideways in his mouth, and his head resting back on the top of the chair.

“Hey you - are you even writing your report?” Murtaugh demanded.

“Hmm.”

“Don’t pretend you’re awake.”

“I don’t need to pretend - I _am_ awake,” Riggs muttered around the pencil.

Murtaugh pushed his chair further up the side of the desk to stop by Riggs’ boots. “What’s the matter?”

“I kinda screwed the pooch for her, didn’t I?” he said, his words muffled.

“She’ll work it out. Like you said, she should have asked the DEA for back-up in the first place. Who goes to a secret deal with un-impounded goods with nothing but two LAPD detectives you just met?”

Riggs groaned suddenly, his eyes closing in horrifically unpleasant realisation. “Aw damn it.”

“What?” Murtaugh demanded. “Riggs, what?”

“This whole thing has been a double-cross, right?” he said, ripping the pencil from his mouth. He lifted his boots from the desk so fast Murtaugh lurched back to avoid being round-housed in the nose. “And a real good one, too - man, I believed her. Everything she said!”

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “Wait… you mean Wabash has been playing us? She _wanted_ Danny to get the phones and make the deal? But what about the Tongs trying to kill her?”

“I don’t know - but there’s only one reason you’d do a deal in the middle of the night and only call you and me for help, right?”

“Hey don’t say that,” Murtaugh tutted, his face a giant wince. “You make it sound like we’re such a couple of dumbasses that she chose us on purpose because she knew we’d mess it up.”

Riggs looked at him - just looked.

Murtaugh slapped his hands over his face. “Aw, damn it!”

“Well we’re onto her,” Riggs said. He shot to his feet. “Car. Let’s go find her before she gets the pay-off for whatever it is from _whoever_ it is.”

“You got it,” Murtaugh grumped. He stood up and grabbed for his jacket and car keys. “No-one double-crosses Roger Mayfield Murtaugh for reasons unknown using people unknown for a totally unknown pay-off and gets away with it!”

“That’s the spirit, Rog,” he growled, already on his way to the lifts.

ooOoo

Wabash sighed, her hands behind her back, as she walked through the underground parking lot. She passed the officers’ vehicles and sergeants’ spaces before finding her rental car waiting patiently under the striplight nearest the exit to the street.

Casting a wary eye over the large dark van parked rather too close to the driver’s side, she looked to her left and found the passenger side parking space empty. An older model Hyundai was parked almost over the white line beyond it, but she shrugged it off and pulled out her keys, triggering the central locking.

Something inside the van made a noise. She edged back and instead went to the passenger side. As she opened up the door the Hyundai behind her suddenly started its engine.

Doors flew open. She turned at the noise, her hand on her gun. Hands grabbed her waist, her mouth, her neck.

And then it was dark.


	9. Chapter 9

Murtaugh held the car park door open behind him as he surveyed the many cars in their spaces. “What does she drive, anyway? Where’s she staying?”

“How should I know?” Riggs asked, catching him up from the stairwell. They walked out into the underground parking lot, looking around with the air of people who are completely lost. “Uh… A rental? What does the DEA get for a weekend in L.A.?”

“My money’s on a Ford,” Murtaugh grumped, walking off to the right.

Riggs headed off left. “See if any of ’em have that tag thing hanging from the rear-view.”

“I know how to spot a rental, thanks,” he called back. Ten minutes later and Murtaugh felt his cellphone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out without even looking at the display. “What?”

“Got one. By the entrance - could be hers.”

“I’m on my way. —Don’t touch anything,” he said. He ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket, turning and jogging for the light at the end of the exit tunnel. He found Riggs stretching over the bonnet of a black Ford, as if polishing something from a windscreen washer. “What are you doing?”

Riggs pulled back, checking his thumb. “This car is filthy.”

“We’ll leave a nasty review for the firm later,” he said. “Where’s Wabash?”

“Not here,” Riggs mused, turning and scrutinising the rest of the concrete car haven. “She left her car… unlocked. But took the keys, wherever she went.”

“Maybe she forgot to lock it,” Murtaugh shrugged.

“Rog, the lady has like a MENSA IQ and crazy attention to detail. She wouldn’t forget to lock a car that she has to hand back and sign over to someone later.”

Murtaugh smiled. “Ok seriously - you two just drink and fall asleep last night? For real?”

Riggs scraped his hair out of his eye. “CCTV. We’re the police, right? We have to have CCTV.” He marched off, back in the direction of the stairwell.

Murtaugh shrugged and followed quietly. With a smile.

ooOoo

Aware of her own eyelids, she paused. Instead of opening her eyes she took stock; hands behind her, probably tied but without moving hard to judge; ankles together against their will; shoulder under her against something hard and warm; head semi-comfortable albeit half-buried in something soft; mouth wrapped with warm softness.

Voices, a gentle background rumble, the steady pitch and roll of movement. Red against her eyelids, then green - a car horn, someone shouting but not against glass.

The ground beneath her turned and she let herself sag with it. More voices - this time over music. A beat, another, guitars and a voice describing half a melody, half an explanation.

“This is it,” - louder, closer, somewhere over her head.

The rumble and the movement ceased. A solid _clunk_ , the slide of metal on metal.

“Ok, get her out.”

Hands under her, turning her to sit up, something supporting her head. She opened her eyes and tried to bite at whatever was across her mouth.

“Hey there,” said a voice. She turned her head and found a man crouched by her, holding her up. “Here we are. You can walk now, right? So I don’t have to carry you?”

Cataloguing his face, she tried to match it to anyone she’d ever seen or met - but nothing came up. She nodded carefully.

“Great. Get up.” He grabbed her upper arms and eased her to her feet. “Watch your head - low ceiling,” he said quickly. His hand went to her hair, pushing slightly to keep the top of her head from hitting anything. “Ok now - walk to the house. Ok?”

She nodded again.

“Great.” He helped her negotiate her way to the edge of the metallic flooring beneath her - and then she hopped down from the back of a van. She looked around, confused. “I know right? Not the Hyundai that grabbed you?” he grinned. “We changed cars, Agent. Now all you gotta do is walk with me and this will all be over soon.”

She made her hands brush behind her, but felt no phone in her back pocket. She swallowed and let herself be led away from the van, across some kind of grassy area and into a large concrete tunnel.

A few minutes of walking found them entering some kind of estate. She looked back over her shoulder to see the pipe was disguised with hanging ivy and other plant-based accomplices. Looking forward, she found a large white house with a rather lovely ornate garden and a gravel drive waiting for her. She paused, surprised. And then the wide man next to her pushed her onward.

She walked.

ooOoo

Murtaugh folded his arms, hissing air from between his teeth. “Well that kinda looks like she was kidnapped.”

Riggs, standing directly behind Bailey’s desk, his eyes boring into the CCTV playback on her monitor, grimaced in a way that could have put the fear of stolen fries into any Hamburgler. “Hmm.”

“Bailey - any way you can tell us who stole our favourite DEA agent?” Murtaugh asked quietly.

She wheeled her chair closer to her desk and put her hands to the keyboard. “This is… the best we got. Sorry - it’s more of a deterrent.”

Riggs let his hands drop and turned to wander toward the far windows. Other police officers kept away from him in a silent bubble of wariness they preferred to call ‘caution’. As he stared out of the window, clearly seeing nothing at all, Murtaugh perched himself on the side of Bailey’s desk.

“Seriously - can you get _anything_ from that? A car, a face… a direction even?” he asked under his breath.

Bailey looked up at him, waving her hands out in a tiny gesture of helplessness.

“Hey, uh, Bailey?” Riggs announced. He walked back over, his hands dropping. “Can you track her phone?”

“I… don’t have her number - I don’t even know where to start,” she said.

He pulled his from his back pocket. “I got her number. Can you do something with that?”

“Let me have it,” she said, turning back to the keyboard.

ooOoo

Wabash followed the men in through a large front door. The interior of the reception area was lavish to the extreme; marble statues, oil paintings, a long, curved staircase - she looked at it all, her eyes slightly narrowed.

“Like it?” said a voice from behind her. “Cost me a pretty penny. But it was totally worth it.”

She didn’t turn. “Judging by the exterior of the house, this is… about right.”

“What?” A man stepped around to be in front of her, glaring so hard his eyes were practically searching for weapons secreted about her person, so that they could do more damage. “What do you mean?”

_Her_ eyes, unimpressed with his glare, simply catalogued him from his face down to his shoes and back up. “The outside of the house is ostentatious, garish, attempting to show off its wealth. If the inside here were not in the same vein, I would be more surprised than I am.”

He gaped for a second. She took note of his long hair, tied back and up around some kind of antique hair pin. His suit was shiny grey and made to order, if the cut was anything to go by. The shoes poking out from under the perfectly tailored trousers were light brown and very, very clean. They went very well with his beige shirt.

“Who are you, so that we can speed this up?” she asked clearly.

He appeared to shake himself. “Charlie. Charlie Tong. Head of the gang that just kidnapped you and tried to run you down last night.” He paused. “And you’re DEA, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then how come I can’t find any case info on you, lady? We looked everywhere - you don’t have any case records, any work, any commendations - all it shows is your start date and promotion six months ago.”

Her head tilted to one side in thought. “You’re new at this. Are you… the new head of the Tongs?”

“Don’t let the name fool you - I don’t have anything to do with them,” he said stiffly.

“Then change your name,” she said. “Every drug lord or criminal kingpin does it. Why do you still go by ‘Tong’?”

He smiled. “Sometimes it still scares people.” He sniffed, clasping his hands in front of himself. “Not you, I guess.”

“I _am_ a DEA agent,” she said evenly. “I’ve seen dead bodies, shoot-outs, limbs hanging off, and colleagues injured in the line of duty. ‘Tong’ is just another name.”

He grinned. “Whoa, boys - we have ourselves a veteran. She’s not going to crack under torture, right?”

“Information gained under torture conditions has been shown to be unreliable at best,” she said off-hand. “It would be a waste of your time and resources.”

“What if I enjoy it?”

“You do not torture people,” she said dismissively.

He looked her up and down. “You sure about that?”

“Your hands are too neat. You look after them.”

He looked past her left and right shoulders, to the men standing behind her. “You ever heard of outsourcing?”

She sighed. “But the evidence about information given during torture being unreliable still stands. That is not up for debate; it is a scientific fact.”

“So… we just torture you and then decide if we trust your info or not.”

“If you want to waste your time, it appears I will be unable to change your mind,” she said, as if announcing the weather.

Charlie Tong took a step closer to her and smiled. “I kinda like you. But here’s the thing - we need to know what Danny’s boss is doing in New York. And you’re going to tell us.”

“Whether I like you or not is irrelevant. What Danny’s boss is doing in New York is irrelevant.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I don’t know. I have nothing to reveal.”

“Oh, now that’s not true,” he oiled. “Boys? Take her downstairs. Help her get more comfortable.”

Hands grabbed her elbows. She was yanked to her left and across the reception area, toward a wooden door just by the first step.

“You are wasting your time!” she called irritably.

“So you say,” he smiled.

“And I thought you were smarter than this,” she grumped, as the door was opened and she was pulled inside.

ooOoo

Murtaugh started the car and pulled out of the police parking lot. “That’s the best we got?”

“That’s the best we got,” Riggs said from the passenger seat. “82016 Shuler Drive.”

“That’s really out in the open,” Murtaugh protested. “Why snatch a DEA agent and take her there? I mean the neighbours are going to complain about a beat-up van mere feet from their lawn. It’s conspicuous.”

“I don’t know, Rog,” he snapped. “Just put your foot down.”

“You’re angry,” Murtaugh said in surprise. “Why are you angry?”

“Because they could be doing anything to her - she could be dead.”

“Wow - you’re more scared for her than you are for me and my near-death experiences at your hands.”

“I got her wrong, ok?” he snapped. “I thought she was double-crossing us.”

“Whoa hey - she could _still_ be double-crossing us,” Murtaugh said as they tore through traffic. “Hey! Share the road!” he cried. He tried to look behind him into the back seat. “Get the blue light, man.”

Riggs squirmed round and through the seats. He snagged the blue emergency light and hauled it back. Fighting with the cord, he managed to get it in the cigar lighter in the car’s central console. He leant out of the window and slapped the light to the roof. The magnetics kicked in and it would not be moved. He slewed himself back into his seat. “What do you mean she could still be double-crossing us?”

Murtaugh huffed. “I’m not saying she is. What I _am_ saying is, we don’t know why they’ve got her. What do they want from her? Has she got a deal going with _them_ and they think she’s welched on something?”

“One, she wouldn’t do that, and two, later we’ll talk about your use of the word ‘welch’.”

The car streaked through the traffic, the blue light making most of the other vehicles part like the Red Sea. Murtaugh yanked the wheel, taking them off the main drag to a much quieter neighbourhood.

“There! There! Come on, Rog,” Riggs urged, slapping him on the shoulder.

“Shut up! I know!”

The car screeched to a halt by a large, ornate house. The metal gates and speaker-box told tales of a need for solitude or at least prior announcements. But Riggs was already out of the passenger seat and up to the entrance box, jabbing at the buttons in earnest.

A voice talked back.

“Oh, hey, yeah - police - LAPD,” Riggs gabbled. “Open up.”

“Turn to the camera behind you, please - and show your badge.”

“You gotta be kidding me!”

“Badge please.”

He fumbled for his belt and produced the shiny legend, spinning and spotting the CCTV camera on high. He waved it, then held it still and pointed at it with his other hand deliberately. “See? Now let us in!”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“What?” Riggs spluttered. “Do I have a—. Oh for fu—”

“Riggs!” Murtaugh called from the kerb. “Leave it, man. Look at this.”

He turned on the spot. “He’s being a dick, Rog!”

“Yeah but he’s allowed when he’s on his own property,” Murtaugh said, somewhat sadly. “And we don’t need to go in.”

“Why not?”

“Cos I found her cell,” Murtaugh said, pointing to the tastefully manicured lawn by the kerb. “She dropped it.”

Riggs turned a ferocious glare on the speaker-box, then on Murtaugh. Then the box. At last he fumed and stomped over to the kerb to see what his partner was currently bending down to pick up. “Sure it’s hers?”

Murtaugh turned the smartphone over, pinched carefully between his thumb and forefinger. “Call her.”

Riggs delved in his pocket. He tapped at buttons and the phone in Murtaugh’s fingers began to vibrate. “Aw great,” Riggs heaved.

Murtaugh straightened up. “So… what now? How do we find her?”

Riggs paced round in circles. “If she dropped her phone… then she must have been here, right?”

“I guess.”

“Then we check the traffic cams from here.”

“To where?”

“To wherever they take us, Rog!”

Murtaugh carried the phone with exaggerated care back to the car, getting in and putting it in the glovebox. He fished out his own phone as Riggs piled into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. Murtaugh pressed at the speed-dial before slapping the phone to his ear. “Hey Bailey. That’s a no-go. You were right, we got the phone - but that’s all we got. Yeah. Ditched - by her or her kidnappers. You got any traffic cams on this address? Anything close? Ok. Get on it - anything like the black van we saw on the parking lot footage.”

“Or any vehicle at all,” Riggs called suddenly. “They coulda switched cars.”

“Yeah - they could have switched cars,” he said down the phone. “Ok. Let us know ASAP.” He cancelled the call and pushed the phone into his pocket. “So… what do we do, wait?”

Riggs huffed and glared out of the window. “That’s the thing, Rog - while we’re waiting, she could be in any kind of life-threatening danger.”

ooOoo

The two men stood back, grinning and nodding to each other. “Not bad,” the taller one remarked. “She must work out.”

“‘She’ can hear you,” Wabash remarked coolly. Her hands bound with a zip-tie, and then captured by a large metal hook hanging from the ceiling, her feet were just about able to take her weight as she stretched as tall as she could. Stripped down to her bra and pants, she simply waited, her eyes scanning the rest of the metal room.

She man looked down at her suit and shirt held in his hands. “The boss is going to want to see this.”

“Then go get him,” she said. “I really don’t have time for this.”

The men laughed, then turned to the door. They banged on the inside and it opened.

She twisted her hands as much as she could to see around the room - down her left side was an empty tool rack, six feet out of reach. To her right were small, bricked up windows and a shelf that looked as though it had once held something like paint tins, judging by the clean, round marks in the dust. This too was several feet out of reach.

Her attention went back to the tool rack. Empty or no, it was still metal - she lifted her left foot, shifted her weight to her right, and pushed her left foot out as far as her leg would go. Still several feet short of the rack, she shifted her right foot across the floor. At the straining point of her zip ties, she thew her left leg out sideways. She shuffled and turned to point it out at forty-five degrees behind her. Her toes nearly swept the edge of the rack.

The door scraped and threw itself open. She ignored it to push toward the rack.

“Hey,” said a voice. “Do you do yoga or something?”

“Something like that.”

“And… well, I have to say, you’re pretty fit-looking.”

“That’s the tai chi.”

Charlie Tong grinned, walking into the room, his hands in his pockets. “Damn. Athletic, good-looking, smart - and you do Tai Chi. Where have you been all my life?”

“I presume you grew up in L.A. I did not,” she said, pre-occupied.

“Hey,” he called. “Hey - seriously? Stop that.”

She let her foot down, blowing out a deep breath of exertion and frustration. She shuffled back to be under the hook, getting her feet flat to the floor again. She noticed two men lurking just outside the door, their necks craned to see in as Charlie Tong watched her. “What now?”

“You know, you’re supposed to be squirming,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, clearly clueless.

He shrugged. “Pretty girl, stripped down to her undies - most people are… embarrassed, humiliated.”

“I am neither a girl nor embarrassed,” she said. “Or humiliated.”

“I can see that,” he grinned. He rocked on his heels for a moment. “But seriously, it doesn’t freak you out?”

“What?”

“Being nearly naked in front of all us men?”

“It’s just me,” she said, confused. “I see myself naked every day when I shower. Now what is this about?”

He chuckled. “I mean, damn. I’m _really_ getting to like you, Indian girl.”

“And you are trying my patience, Chinese boy.”

His smile dimmed. “That wasn’t very nice.”

“Ah,” she nodded to herself. “So it’s acceptable for you to call me names but I cannot reply in kind?”

“She’s right, boss,” said a voice behind him. “You called her ‘Indian girl’ first.”

“ _I’m aware_ ,” Tong hissed over his shoulder at him. Then he turned back to her. “Ok, fair enough. Who are you?”

“Wabash,” she said. “You know this from the DEA pass on my suit.”

“No, who _are_ you, Agent?”

“I do not understand.”

“Like I said - we tried to look you up. The DEA just says you work for them. We hacked _everything_ \- your file just lists your base of operations as Topeka, Kansas. See, other agents - they have lists of their arrests, or the offices they’ve worked at, or… something. But yours is just proof you exist.”

“I am particularly unremarkable,” she said tonelessly.

He grinned. “Now I don’t believe _that_.”

“I have no control over what you believe.”

He sighed. “Ok, fine. What is Danny’s boss doing in New York?”

“Probably shopping. She has money,” she said innocently.

“No, really - what is his boss _really_ doing in New York?”

She let her eyes roll up to the left as her head canted to one side. It was silent for a long moment. “The best probability is still shopping. However, she may be trying to extend peaceful greetings to gang bosses there.”

He turned to the men just outside the door. “She’s not going to tell us.”

“Because ‘she’ doesn’t know,” she called.

Tong chucked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get started. Persuade her. Get her to tell you what the boss is doing there.”

The tallest man ducked in through the door. “Any rules, boss?”

Tong turned to look at back at her. His eyes went to his shoes in sadness. “I guess not. Get the answers, boys. No matter what. Just… don’t kill her. We don’t need a dead DEA agent stinking up the place.”

“Yes boss,” they replied.

Wabash considered all three of them with calm, calculating eyes.

Then Tong shook his head in resignation. He walked out of the room. The door shut softly behind him.

“Where shall we start?” the taller man asked.


	10. Chapter 10

Bailey snatched up her phone. Her thumb mashed at the touchscreen as she manipulated something thereon. “Murtaugh!” she called as the line was still connecting. “Yeah - got her. The van they had in the parking lot - they changed cars under a bridge. I mean you can’t see it but one van goes in and a few minutes later a fourteen plate Chevy comes out the other side with four people in it.” She paused. “It went halfway across town - I’m sending you the address now. It’s still parked by a county drainage facility but there’s a big-ass house right next door. I’m still trying to see who the house belongs to.” She nodded. “Alright - let me text it to you.”

She put the phone down and her fingers went at the keyboard like a multi-tasking game of Whac-A-Mole.

ooOoo

The man stood back, the blade slick with blood. “Ok, _now_ you gonna tell us?”

Wabash looked down at the cuts across her thigh, her upper arm, then back at him. “That is not life-threatening. If however you cause an injury that _is_ life-threatening, you will displease your boss and will most certainly be unable to get the information you require of me. I fail to see why we are all here doing this.”

The other man put his hand to his arm and pulled him back. “I’m done with her, man. She’s smug as hell and I’m done with it.”

“I wasn’t aware I came across as ‘smug’,” she said off-hand.

He leant back and then smashed his fist into her face. “Keep going with the smart remarks,” he snarled.

The other man yanked him back. “What are you doing, man? Don’t hurt her bad - the boss will take it out on us.”

He shook his fist out, stepping back. “Then you get her to spill the info. And stop the smart-ass replies.”

Wabash hung limply from the zip-ties round her wrists. She coughed and sniffed, before getting her feet under her and attempting to straighten up. A cut over her left eye was spilling blood, making it hard for her to focus on them. She closed it and watched them with her right. “This is no longer about information,” she rasped.

“What?” the angry guy demanded. “What now, bitch?”

She tasted blood and decided to keep her mouth closed.

But the other man pushed between them. “What do you mean?”

She blinked her one good eye at him. “This is no longer about information. It is merely causing pain because you can. It serves no purpose other than to release anger. It will still not cause me to give you information that I do not have.” She coughed.

He took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Look, most of the time we like this, ok? Big men, full of themselves, thinking they’ll never break - they’re the best, right?” he said, turning to the angry man behind him.

“The more arrogant the better,” he snapped.

“Right.” He looked back at Wabash. “But you… you’re just resigned to this, right? Do you… Do you _actually_ know anything? I mean, really?”

She pushed herself upright. “No. I have said this repeatedly. Why do you not believe me?”

“You’re DEA, lady!” Angry Man shouted. “You know tonnes of stuff!”

“I do, but nothing that will help you please your boss today.”

“See that’s another smart-ass reply!” he shouted, jabbing a finger toward her face.

“Hey! Back up,” the shorter man snapped, elbowing him away. “Just cool off. What if she _doesn’t_ know anything? Then we just cut up a DEA agent for nothing. We get answers, right? That’s our job. What if she don’t have any?”

“She’s lying!” Angry Man shouted. “She’s lying to your face and you’re believing her!”

He thought for a long moment. “Ok, look. If she doesn’t know anything, we’re wasting our time and it doesn’t matter if we break her - she still can’t tell us anything. Then what do we do?”

Angry Man took a few steps back, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“Cut me down. Dump me on the street,” she said wearily. “I don’t even know where I am.”

“We can’t do that - you’ve met the boss,” he said quietly.

“I have no proof,” she said, before sniffing a bloody nose. “And so what? What do I arrest him for - giving me a ride to a fancy house and taking my clothes?”

The two men looked at each other.

Angry Man walked up to her. “You know, you’re just a smart-mouthed bitch who we have to torture. So what if there’s no info? We get to do it anyway.”

Her left eye still shut against the blood leaking from the cut above, her right went up him slowly until she was looking him in the eye. “How tall are you?”

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Six two? Six four?” she asked.

“What?”

Her head snapped back. She drove it forward into his eye socket as hard as she could. He spluttered and bent over to feel his face. She jumped to get her feet to his back. Then she shot up and lifted her zip-tie from the hook.

She landed on her feet just as the other man swept a knife toward her. She ducked back. He missed her; his momentum took his shoulder past her. She lurched hers into his back. He was driven head-first into the wall.

Angry Man got up. “Right - that’s it!” he raged. He leapt for her.

ooOoo

Murtaugh sped down the road, the blue light whirling from the roof. He slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt by a smart driveway. Riggs was already leaping out of the car as Murtaugh was squinting along the drive to the gated entrance. “Riggs! How we going to get in!” he yelled out of the window.

But Riggs was not going to the gates. Instead he disappeared into the bushes down the side of the property - _outside_ the wall.

Murtaugh grabbed up his keys and tore out of the car, running after him.

They collided in the mini-jungle obscuring the concrete walls. “Careful, Rog!”

Murtaugh pulled himself upright and followed as Riggs picked his way along the wall. They came upon a large, white tunnel taller than head height. Riggs put his hand against the side, then veered off to hunt down the opening.

Murtaugh pulled his gun, checked it was ready for business, and ran after him.

Riggs had found the open end. He pulled his own gun and started off down the tunnel.

“Riggs - what are we doing?” Murtaugh hissed as he chased after him.

“Bailey said this was county drainage, right?” he called over his shoulder. “They didn’t go in the front, so they must have gone this way.”

“How do you know they didn’t go in the front?”

“Because then their own vehicle with their kidnappers in it - and Emily - would be on their own CCTV!”

“That’s a good point,” Murtaugh said. “But they could just erase it!”

“Always nit-picking,” Riggs panted.

They ran - and eventually burst out into bright sunshine. They looked at each other, then moved cautiously apart to approach the front door.

ooOoo

He heard the banging on the door and turned to open it. It moved two inches before it abruptly slammed back and into his face.

“Oof - what the—”

A fist went into his face and then a knee. His head collided with the wall for good measure - and then he was quite glad to sink into unconsciousness.

Wabash turned from the door and looked up and down the corridor. She stepped over the man and headed for the end of the corridor.

At the end a wooden door barred her way. She tried the handle to find it locked. Standing back, she thought for a long moment. Then she turned and looked around - next to the fallen man was a chair. It appeared to host a pile of badly folded clothes. Her DEA pass was hanging from one edge. She went straight over and yanked it free before going back to the door. Sliding the edge of her pass in between the door and the frame, she pushed and manoeuvred until the handle gave. She cracked it open barely an inch, holding her breath as she looked around.

Empty.

She swallowed, clenched her pass in her free hand, and carefully pushed the door further open. Sliding through she pushed it silently shut behind her. She looked left and right.

No sound.

No people.

She wet her lips. And then she straightened up and made a beeline for the front door. She reached it and put her hand to the large knob on the inside.

“Ah-ah-ah!” someone called.

She closed her eyes in failure.

“Take your hand off that door and turn around.”

Her hand dropped away. She put them both out to show she had only a DEA pass. And then she turned gradually.

Charlie Tong watched her, a handgun trained on her movements. “Now I really am upset. You just got free of restraints, beat the crap out of two of my men, _and_ almost made it out of here.”

“Three men,” she said tonelessly.

He grinned. “Right. So… I’m guessing you didn’t tell them what I wanted to know.”

“For perhaps the tenth time, let me say it explicitly: I do not know what Danny’s boss is doing in New York.”

“That makes me sad,” he sighed. “Because now I have to shoot you. Believe me, I really don’t want to but I can’t have you roaming free after what went down today. Do you understand?” he asked, his eyes pinched into a state that, in anyone else, would engender sympathy.

Wabash shrugged. “I understand that you have no choice here. If I live, I can tell people I was kidnapped and inconvenienced. However if I’m dead, you can continue to do… whatever it is you do.” She paused, turning a conflicted look on the floor by his feet. “If you don’t mind my asking… what _do_ you do?”

He grinned. “Drugs. Cars. Prostitution. All the greatest hits.”

“Ah. Not very successfully, I guess.”

His smile slipped somewhat. “What?”

“I am DEA, as you know. I have worked many cases in and around California and yet I have not heard of your drug business. No-one has mentioned your name or gang in connection with drugs - at least not in circles where the DEA should be. If you’re not on our radar, you can’t be very important.”

His face went dark. “Ok, fine. I’ll kill you know.” He cocked the gun.

An almighty _bang_ hammered into the front door.

Wabash jumped.

It hammered again - and then the window next to it caved in as something hurtled through.

It rolled to an ungraceful stop and produced a gun - pointed at Tong. “LAPD! Cease and desist!” Murtaugh shouted.

“Wh-what?” Tong managed in shock.

Another ground-shaking pounding on the front door - it shot open on its hinges. Riggs appeared in the frame, his gun trained on Tong. “He means put the gun down! Now!”

Charlie Tong gaped at first Riggs, then Murtaugh. “Right! Yes!” His hand gave a slight jump and the gun flipped up a few inches before plummeting to the tiled floor. It clattered to a stop. Murtaugh got to his feet and slid it away from him.

Riggs was staring at Wabash, with either horror or cold rage on his face. Blood over her thighs, her upper arms, her throat - blood in her left eye - blood seeping into her underwear - everything about her screamed physical damage. “Hey - you ok?”

She did not move for a long moment. And then she fixed her one clear eye on him. “I would like to leave here, Detective,” she said quietly. He nodded, pushing the safety back on his gun and tucking it in the back of his jeans.

Murtaugh was already reciting rights at Tong as he turned him round and began to cuff him.

Riggs unbuttoned his heavy shirt quickly and yanked it off, going to Wabash. He threw it over her shoulders but she put a hand up against his t-shirt. She pushed politely and he backed up. She lifted the shirt and slid it on her arms properly. He buttoned it up for her, noticing her fists drop to her sides but clench so hard the knuckles were striped red and white. “You want to go to the station or the hospital first?” he asked quietly.

“Neither,” she said. “My wounds are not life-threatening.”

“Well you say that now but that shirt ain’t the cleanest and to be honest you could catch anything from it.”

“I am… so tired,” she whispered. “I need to… sit down. Somewhere safe.”

He stood back and then turned to see Murtaugh leading Tong out of the house, his free hand keeping his phone to his head as he barked orders to someone back at the station.

“I got an idea,” he said. He turned back to her and put his hand out toward her elbow, but she nodded and walked past him, out of the front door.

His hands went to his hips. He looked at the floor, huffed out a long breath, and then scraped his hair out of his eye. He sniffed and went for the front door.

ooOoo

Bailey walked to and fro, keeping her notebook ready but her pen capped. She looked left at the white outline, previously the address of a corpse, and then to her right, at the open door. She frowned.

“So which hurricane do you think did it?” came a voice from behind her.

She turned and found Scorsese watching her, his arms folded and a smile on his face. “Riggs,” she said.

“Well I disagree,” he said, walking over to the corpse. “The assailant was either lacking in strength or conviction. They got in a few blows before using the man’s own weight to ram his head into the wall. The unconsciousness seems to have been a side-effect.”

She blinked. “Sure? Or that’s what… That’s what someone trying to escape would do.”

“You’re saying you agree that this wasn’t Riggs?”

“Well yeah - the man’s still here to interrogate after he tortured a defenceless woman,” she shrugged.

Scorsese raised a finger. “Or was she?”

“Tortured?”

“Defenceless,” he said. “There’s enough spilt blood to indicate she was indeed tortured. However, it _also_ appears that she gave as good as she got. I mean, two men were rendered unconscious - and currently in custody - and the biggest one is dead.”

Bailey smiled, stealing a few steps closer. “You like her.”

“I admire her ‘how dare you’ spirit.”

“I’ll tell her you said that,” she grinned.

“So she’s back at the station? I’d love to ask her how she got free. Real life experience is invaluable to adding authenticity to a script.”

Bailey shook her head. “I think she’s gone to the hospital first.”

ooOoo

“You know, you probably should have gone to the hospital first,” Riggs said, closing the door to his trailer behind Wabash, who was currently striding through what passed for his front room as if she were wearing much more than just her underwear and a borrowed shirt.

“There’s no need,” she announced. She paused to look around. “I need to shower.”

He stumbled closer to his couch/bed, pointing vaguely toward the shower unit. “Uh - there.”

“Thank you.” She pulled off his shirt and let it drop to the floor. Then she stepped into the unit and closed the door without preamble.

He opened his mouth, let it work for a second without sound, then looked around. A hasty grab at anything in the way or unnecessary later and he was satisfied the open area was clear of obstructions. The couch area was heaped in comfortable cushions and blankets, unopened alcohol bottles within easy reach.

He heard the shower finally start up and went to a cupboard next to it. He found a towel and hung it on the hook right by the entrance, so it would be the first thing she saw when she opened up. He went to the front door, heading out onto the sand. Trailing around the end, he found himself staring at the horizon, the calming sea working its magic on his ragged nerves. Presently he heard the door to the trailer open and was unsurprised to realise someone was standing next to him.

A beer bottle was waved into his view and he took it. “Thanks.”

She sipped her own beer. “I am wearing some of your cast-offs,” she announced.

He turned his head and his eye roamed around her, smiling as he found her in what - on her - looked like an overly-long t-shirt. Underneath she had on a suspiciously clean pair of long johns. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.” She sniffed, then sipped more beer. “I will take all your laundry in tomorrow.”

“It’s not that much.”

“Six pairs of socks, three shirts and five pairs of boxers are more than enough,” she said.

“You may be right.”

“Because you only own seven pairs of socks?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

She finished her beer, leaving him somewhat in awe. “I understand.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

She sniffed, then considered the empty beer bottle. “That would require more drink.”

He smiled and fumbled for her hand, pulling her after him. They went back into the trailer and she sank into the comfy couch. He set about opening a bottle of whiskey before he went over and collected up clean glasses. Finally he dropped to the warm seat next to her. “Tell me.”

She watched him pour generous measures of alcohol into each glass, then sit back and hand her one. She took it and smelt at the rim before she shifted round on the sofa, watching him from a few feet away. “They thought that stripping me to my underwear would somehow humiliate me.”

“Well - that kinda does it for a few folks.” He sipped his drink.

“You have tattoos.”

“And?” he asked, confused.

“Do you have them for yourself, or for others to appreciate?”

His head slid to one side as he appraised her for a long moment. “No-one’s ever asked me that before.”

“Which is it?”

“Well, for me I guess,” he shrugged. He clawed his hair from his eye. “Although if other people see it, then ok.”

She put her hand up slowly, pulling the collar of his t-shirt right down and to his left to reveal a long gun barrel. “This one? What does it represent?”

He studied her face, but she simply looked back at him with neither hurry nor hindrance. “Well… It’s like… You know how sometimes you have to be the stick, right?” he asked. “I mean, someone else smaller or less prepared than you might get themselves into something, and you have to beat that situation to a pulp to help them out, right?”

She let go of the material. “It symbolises protecting the weak?”

“Not the _weak_ ,” he said. “Just… more… vulnerable, so… less… like temporarily less able to do it themselves. For whatever reason.” He paused. “Maybe they want to - maybe they wish they could, but… they just can’t,” he shrugged. She nodded, her hand dropping away. Her gaze went to the drink in her hand. “But hey, we arrested Charlie and two of his men,” he added. “One guy in his little room - he’s dead, so we don’t have to waste our time booking _that_ guy.”

“You think I’m asking for myself.”

“Isn’t that like… normal? I mean, after being tied up and cut on?”

She let out a snort of amusement. She sipped her whiskey. “I think you and I have different definitions of torture. The hardest part of the whole thing was the monumental waste of time.”

“Waste of _time_?”

She set the glass down and suddenly her face was stone-like anger. “They kept asking me the same thing over and over! I told them the truth, over and over! Why would they persist?” she cried.

He sat back, one hand up in an effort to calm her. “Whoa, I mean—”

“Pointless! It was pointless!” she shouted. “Repeating the same actions and expecting a different outcome - that’s the definition of madness!”

“Well they _were_ just paid help,” he said lamely.

“They were stupid! Stupid and a complete waste!”

“And not in charge. I mean every boss needs idiots who just follow orders, right? Otherwise you get too many chiefs and not enough—. Uh—”

Her head snapped round to glare at him. “Say it. Too many chiefs and not enough indians.”

He winced. “S-sorry.”

“I do not mean to blame you,” she heaved, shaking her head. “You even tried to stop yourself.”

“Ye-ah… let my mouth run away with me,” he said quietly. There was an awkward silence. He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m not trying to say it was ok, what they did,” he managed, “but we know _why_ they did it - that’s all.”

She nodded. “I… understand.” She paused. “I suppose you have been able to categorise people as Thinkers or Tools since you joined the military.”

He sniffed and gave a shrug, his free hand going out one way and his whiskey going the other. “Well, yeah, I guess.” He smiled. “I know what you want to say: I started out a grunt who just took orders and didn’t question them too.”

“That is hardly the same,” she scoffed.

He shrugged again. “Probably more than you think.” He noticed a red line just shy of the arm of the t-shirt. “Oh, hey - let’s see to all them cuts first.”

“Before what?”

“Before we drink ourselves stupid again.”

“Deal.”

He got up and rifled through cupboards before standing back, nonplussed.

“If you are looking for your First Aid kit, then I have already opened it and used it on my legs and major areas,” she said mildly.

“Oh. Well… good.” He looked around to find her pointing toward the side of the kitchenette counter-top. Picking up the kit, he carried it over and set it down on the low table before he turned to her. “Ok, get your shirt off.”

“You mean _your_ shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Would it bother you if I said I had nothing on under this?”

He paused in apprehension. “What?” he managed.

“My underwear is in your shower, drying after I hand-washed it.”

“Oh. Right. Uhm…”

“It’s just my arms. It seems I forgot them after I had done other parts of me.” She rolled up the t-shirt sleeves as far as they would go. “There. I will not take it off. It upsets people.”

“You noticed, huh?” he teased, finding shallow wounds seeping a tiny amount of blood criss-crossing her upper arm. He found a sterile anti-sceptic wipe and broke it out of its seal. He swept it over the cuts carefully, but she did not react.

“I have been through therapy,” she said. “I can now look people in the eye and recognise when I upset them from categorising the expressions on their faces.” She shrugged. “I am working on the bit about how that makes me feel.”

“I kinda envy you,” he said quietly. He finished up with the swab and went for the long roll of constricting bandage. He fished out sterile patches and pulled one out of its protective pouch. He placed it over a particularly nasty-looking slice and then went about wrapping the bandage round her arm carefully. “I mean, nothing touches you, right?”

“The opposite,” she said, surprised. “I feel everything, more than most, and very deeply,” she added in earnest. “However… it is difficult for me to express what I feel.”

“Such as?”

“Such as… You are very dear to me and if anyone hurt you I would make a very serious attempt to kill them,” she shrugged. “And possibly succeed. I mean I am not without skills.”

He paused, keeping his eyes anywhere hers weren’t. “‘Dear’ like how?”

“Like… Beshkno,” she mused, her head down to appraise the couch as he applied more bandage. “He is dead, but… you are the same. To me.”

“Well that sounds like high praise indeed,” he smiled. “Although your brother did leave you stuck in a tree, so…”

She pushed at his shoulder. “You are teasing me. I will hurt you.”

He laughed out loud. “Drink your whiskey, Lady Spock.”

“T’Pol.”

“Bless you,” he chuckled.

“No - T’Pol. She was full Vulcan. Spock was half Vulcan, half human.”

“Then ok, Tuh-Pol - drink your alcohol and let’s forget we have to do like a tonne of police work stuff tomorrow.”

“This is an agreeable turn of events.”

He laughed and sat back, snapping the First Aid kit shut and reaching for his drink.


	11. Chapter 11

Murtaugh pulled the chair out and sat slowly, before lacing his hands together on the table and eyeballing the man seated opposite. “Handcuffs too tight?”

“What now?”

“Are they too tight? Not used to being arrested, huh?” Murtaugh smiled. “That’s ok. I mean you won’t be in here for long. You had a semi-naked kidnappee in your house - who just happens to be DEA. No sir, Mr Charlie Tong, this won’t take long at all.”

Tong sat back. “Look, my lawyer will be here shortly. And until she gets here? I don’t have to talk to you.”

“That’s true,” Murtaugh said, pointing both index fingers at him. “And you definitely shouldn’t talk to me. Your two men are going to do all the talking we need, so you just sit tight and we’ll have all this wrapped up in an indictment by supper.”

“Three.”

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, bending slightly closer to hear.

“Three men. I had three men working for me on the grounds today.”

“Oh well maybe you’re not up on current events. One of them died. It seems he was a little too hands-on in the all the wrong, most inappropriate ways. He’s dead, Mr Tong. A Mr…” He looked at the notes on the table next to his hands. “Johnny Chow.”

Tong slapped a hand against the table top. “仆街,” he hissed with feeling. “I always knew his anger management issues would get him into trouble.” He shook his head. “This is on me, man. I shouldn’t have left him in there with her.”

“You knew he had issues?” Murtaugh asked, surprised.

“Yeah I know - bad management. He had disciplinary problems, anger problems… He _was_ a problem,” he sighed. “I should have sent him to therapy or something. But he was… bigger than me.”

“Minion problems?” he commiserated.

“Oh like you wouldn’t believe,” he heaved. “I mean, I finally get free of Maria Jackson, and what happens? Before I can do any decent deals I’m hoisted by my own petard.”

“Sounds painful,” Murtaugh winced.

“I know, right?” Tong sighed. “It’s Shakespeare. ‘Blown up by my own bomb’. Sounds about right.”

“Shakespeare, huh?”

“Shakespeare.”

“Well I have to admit, this is not where I thought this conversation would go.”

“Me neither,” he sighed, slumping harder into the chair.

“You were trying to get free of Tina Turner?” Murtaugh asked quietly.

“Tina Turner?”

“Or Pam Grier. Take your pick.”

“No… More Charlize Theron,” Tong nodded. “It’s the glare, man. She’s got some daggers, know what I mean?”

“The kind that pierce your skull from thirty feet away?”

Tong nodded, pointing at him. “Something like that. Look - I was under her for a while, right? She’s a ruthless bitch - and I mean that with affection. But now she’s in New York and I just know she’s doing some kind of deal. I was just trying to find out what that deal is - does it involve flipping on me? Can I get in on the informant action? Or is she just consolidating power with the New York gangs? Who really knows?”

Murtaugh sat back. He folded his arms slowly, studying him with interest. “Hmm.”

“Whatever, man. I’m sorry about the DEA agent. She was balls-to-the-wall tough. And I mean _tough_. She didn’t flinch, didn’t break, didn’t give up. She just went for the escape and woe betide anyone in her way, right?”

Murtaugh shrugged. “They make them tough in the DEA.”

“Yeah, man!” he marvelled. “Imagine what someone like that is worth to me as an operative.”

Murtaugh got to his feet. “Well you can think about that. And the fact that she had to kill some guy to get free of your snooty house. I’ll be back later.”

Tong lifted a hand. “Wait - she—. I mean… she’s ok?”

“Oh she’s fine,” Murtaugh scoffed. “You better be ready, though. She might come for you next.”

Tong sat back, suitably silenced.

Murtaugh smiled and walked out of the interrogation room, closing the door behind himself with satisfaction.

ooOoo

The lift doors opened and Riggs appeared, his jacket over his arm and a large take-out coffee in the other hand. He got as close as twenty paces from his desk before Avery’s office door opened so fast it nearly sucked in an innocent passer-by.

“Riggs!” he bellowed.

He looked around as if checking for anyone else with the same name and then turned to look across the room as Avery. He pointed at his own chest in a question.

“In here! Now!”

Riggs dropped his jacket to his desk as he plodded past and went into the office.

Avery closed the door behind him. “Detective - where is the DEA agent that was rescued yesterday?”

“Oh she’s sleepin’, thanks for asking.”

“Sleeping?” Avery demanded. He went back round his desk but did not sit.

Riggs most certainly did. He got comfortable in one of Avery’s chairs, leaning his left elbow on the arm. He balanced the coffee on the other armrest. “Uh-huh. She really tied one on last night and she’s still sleeping it off.”

“Where?” Avery asked, his eyes narrowed.

“At her hotel.”

Avery blew out a sigh and sat down. He cleared his throat. “Has she been to a hospital?”

“No. She said nothing was life-threatening and refused to go. I mean I don’t know, but I don’t think I’m allowed to force her. And there’s no way I _could_ force her - she’d lay me out.”

“I believe you,” he nodded, his eyes large with sudden understanding. “I have paperwork now. You have no idea how much trouble this has caused.”

“Well hey, I’m pretty sure she’d prefer it if none of it had happened either.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he sighed. He relaxed back into his chair. “Has she told you what happened?”

“A bit,” he said. “Charlie Tong and his guys picked her up. They kept asking over and over what Danny Ortiguez’s boss is doing in New York. She didn’t know so they kept cuttin’. Eventually she got free enough to get out.”

“Yeah - we have two of them in custody but another is dead. What does she say about that?”

“He let his anger get the better of him,” Riggs shrugged. “The way she saw it, it was him or her. And I do believe it was _not_ going to be her.”

Avery nodded. “I see.” His head turned to look toward the window on his right. “Look… Is she ok?”

“She will be.”

“She told you that?”

“Kinda.”

“As one… as one soldier to another?”

“What?”

Avery looked at him. “When she first turned up here, I made a call. Her immediate boss made it very clear that Wabash was on vacation and I was _not_ to ask any more questions.” He paused, assessing Riggs’ confused face. “But today I called them again - I felt I had to inform them what happened, and I expected her to visit a hospital and then it would get back to her boss anyway.”

“And? How much trouble is she in right now for working on something her boss doesn’t know about?”

Avery’s eyes went large and round. “Oh she’s not in trouble. At least not yet.”

Riggs frowned. “Now I _know_ I’ve missed something.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “When’s their back-up arriving?”

Avery sat forward and laced his hands on the desk. “No-one’s coming.”

“Uh… good?”

“Not really. What I’m about to tell you does not go further than this room - and Murtaugh.” He paused. “Actually _not_ Murtaugh. He’ll tell Trish and she can’t know.”

“Cross my heart, hoss,” Riggs said slowly, intrigued.

“Wabash _is_ DEA. However a few years back she was picked for an elite team. It doesn’t seem to have a name but it’s a kind of… special ops mixed with undercover work. She is, at the moment, on free rein to protect anything to do with Danny’s boss being in New York, and also to round up as many gang bosses here in L.A. as possible.” He paused. “If anyone asks, she actually is DEA. But her objective is to keep things here straight until the big boss is back from New York.”

“What?” Riggs managed. “So she _does_ know what Danny’s boss is doing in New York?”

“I guess she must do.”

Riggs sat up straight. “But…” He paused, his head turning to one side as something went through his head. “No… I don’t think she does.”

“You sure?”

“I think… yeah, I am.”

Avery sighed. “Well there we are.” He eyed Riggs’ coffee. “Murtaugh says you escorted her from the crime scene. What happened after that?”

“She refused to go to the hospital. We went back to my trailer. She got cleaned up, I patched up her leaks, and I dropped her at her hotel and she promised she was going to sleep until noon.”

Avery let a small smile pull at the side of his mouth. “And you just… did that for her. Just like that.”

“She asked me to,” Riggs said, in a way that made Avery believe he hadn’t thought that reply through enough to have lied.

“Right,” he grinned.

“If I didn’t do it, she’d beat me.”

Avery gave a soft chuckle. “I’m sure.” He sniffed. “Look… just keep an eye on her. I’m not sure what’s going on, even less so now that I know she’s part of a DEA special ops team with no name.”

“Where’s the rest of this team?”

“I was told not to ask.”

“Huh.” Riggs sipped at his coffee. “Where are we with everything else?”

“Murtaugh is interrogating the three we arrested. Charlie Tong went first but I haven’t had an update yet.”

Riggs got up and drained his cup. “I’ll catch up with Rog then.”

“Go.”

He winked at him and walked out.

Avery let himself smile. “‘She asked me to’,” he mused. He shook his head.

ooOoo

“Hey! Big Rog!” Riggs called across the open office.

Murtaugh was just appearing from the far entrance. “Riggs - where you been, man?”

“Coffee,” he shrugged.

They met at Murtaugh’s desk. “So Charlie Tong? He’s just dying to turn informant and spare himself a lifetime in jail,” he grinned.

“Awesome. What about the other two?”

“Mr Jeff Pang and Mr Andrew Lau are open to the idea of flipping on everyone and everything if they can _also_ avoid jail time.”

“Wow - not very loyal, these gangsters.”

“I know,” Murtaugh grinned. “You’d think just one of them would be all ‘I ain’t telling you squat, pig!’”

“Well that makes our lives easier. What about Charlie? Why is he so worried about the Big Boss in New York?”

Murtaugh grinned. “Well get this - the Big Boss - Charlize Theron - is in New York and Charlie’s convinced she’s doing a deal with ‘Feds’. You reckon _she’s_ turning informant for our friends at the DEA?”

“Could be,” Riggs shrugged. “But I figure that’s DEA business. All I want is to work out is what Danny and Mia have to do with all this - and how Tina Turner got away with all our ex-impounded cellphones.”

“ _And_ how Wabash is mixed up in all this,” Murtaugh said, waving a finger at him. “Speaking of, where is she? She ok?”

“She’s fine,” Riggs said offhand. He flicked a look at his watch. “We got two hours before she’s on our case.”

“Two hours?”

“Two hours and… nine minutes.”

Murtaugh checked his watch. “That makes it… midday. What’s so special about midday?”

“Let’s just say I’m expecting a call dead on noon.”

Murtaugh blinked. “Ok,” he said, with complete cluelessness. “So where do we start?”

“I think we have to go visit Danny - and Mia. They’re a tonne richer now they’ve unloaded all those phones that were technically ours anyway.”

“Yeah - Avery mentioned he kinda wants them back,” he grinned.

“Ok then. You drive.”

ooOoo

Santiago turned on the couch slowly, stretching for the television remote to her right. She made a desperate snatch for it and then changed the channel. Unsatisfied with the news, she flicked over to the next channel - and then the next.

A scratching sound from the hallway - a chink of metal.

She exploded up from the sofa. She ran for the kitchen and her knives next to the sink.

A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her back. “Hey, Mia - how’s it hangin’?”

She twisted round and pulled, but the hand had a good hold on her. She looked up at Riggs and sagged. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yeah, me,” he grinned, letting her go.

She backed up to lean against the counter top behind her, her hands on the surface by her sides. “You know you can’t just bust in here.”

“Us? Bust in here?” he prompted, putting his hands to his chest and looking aggrieved. “We did _not_ bust in here.” He paused. “Hey, Rog!” he shouted over his left shoulder. “Mia thinks we busted in here!”

Murtaugh appeared round the kitchen doorjamb. “Who, us?” he asked in all innocence. “No no no - we heard sounds of a struggle, so we had to check on the occupants.”

“You didn’t hear no struggle, man,” she argued.

Riggs cupped a hand to his left ear, as if straining to listen. “Wait a minute… Oh - oh you’re right,” he said with a nod. “That’s the TV.”

“The TV!” Murtaugh cried. “How could we have been so easily misled?”

“I know, right?” Riggs commiserated. “I mean, it’s not like people can just hoodwink us into drawing the wrong conclusions about things, so they can get away with stuff behind our backs.”

“Right,” Murtaugh nodded. He raised a finger to point at Riggs. “Although you know who _did_ do that?”

“Well who?” Riggs asked with a wide smile, apparently fascinated.

Murtaugh rolled his eyes toward Santiago, gesturing with his head.

“Who, Rog?” Riggs asked.

Murtaugh jerked his head again, this time twice.

“I don’t get it,” Riggs grinned, folding his arms serenely.

“Ok! Alright!” Santiago cried. She huffed in frustration. “So we were a little _creative_ with the whole smartphone thing.”

“A little creative?” Murtaugh snapped, all pretence at fun gone in an instant. “You _lied_ about the whole smartphone thing, and then you sold a bunch of phones that don’t belong to you, Mia.”

“Yeah?” she shot back. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“You’re going to get them back for us,” Riggs said brightly. “I mean, if you _don’t_ want to go to prison.”

“Hey, LAPD _gave_ us those phones,” she snapped.

“No, we _loaned_ them to you for a sting operation that failed. You then _kept_ said cellphones and sold them for a profit,” Riggs said, still smiling. “That’s called ‘theft’ and it’ll get you five to ten.”

She leant back on the counter again. “Oh please,” she scoffed. “You can’t arrest me.”

“Ah-ah-ah! Rog!” Riggs grinned, pointing a delicate finger at him.

Murtaugh smiled. “Yeah yeah man - I heard that.”

“That sounded like a challenge,” Riggs said, almost sing-song.

“It _did_ sound like a challenge,” Murtaugh smiled. He pulled his handcuffs from his belt behind him. “Mia Santiago, I am—”

“No you’re not!” she cried desperately. She shot upright and put her palms out in a stopping gesture.

“Oh yes we are,” Riggs said, his face now distressingly serious. “Mia, either you get us those phones back or you and Danny are going to be begging to share a cell for the foreseeable future.”

“You got nothing on us!”

“The DEA has amazing 4K surveillance footage of you and Danny selling phones to Tina Turner out in front of that warehouse,” he said. “Now do you want to try that again?”

She sagged all over. “Ok - alright.” Her eyes went to her boots for a long moment. Then she looked up at him. “But… what if I can’t get the phones back?”

Riggs swayed, arms folded, to raise his eyebrows at Murtaugh. He lifted the handcuffs again.

“Ok! Hold on!” she cried. “What if I can’t get the phones back, but I _can_ get that woman back for another deal?”

“Tina Turner?” Riggs asked.

“Who? No - Maria Jackson,” she said.

Murtaugh smiled. “Now _that’s_ more like it.”

“It’s better than ‘sorry Department of Justice - our informant accidentally lost all of your cellphones when they made a profit out of them’,” Riggs shrugged.

Murtaugh nodded. “It might make up for the cellphones.”

“I don’t know - Wabash said they were pretty expensive,” Riggs hissed.

“Where is she anyhow?” Santiago grumped. “I thought this whole thing was her gig.”

“Did you now?” Murtaugh asked. “And who told you that?”

“I just figured,” she said. “You two are like my last two brain cells, fighting it out - but she’s like… a grown up.”

“Hey, _I’m_ a grown up,” Murtaugh protested. “I got kids and everything.”

She looked at him - just looked.

Riggs cleared his throat. “Look - how do you get Tina Turner back for another deal?”

Santiago swallowed, then looked up at him. “I gotta convince Danny there’s another sale.”

“So go do it,” Riggs said.

“With what? What are we selling, and how did I magically get hold of it without Danny being in on that bit?” she demanded. “We do everything together, man. If I just roll up with cases of stolen shit he’s going to know this is a set-up.”

Murtaugh frowned, thinking for a moment. Riggs put a palm up as if asking for permission. Murtaugh straightened to look at him. “What?” he dared.

“How about, Mia tells him her DEA agent has accidentally let slip that there’s a shipment of something Tina Turner would want,” Riggs said. “Mia and Danny appropriate it themselves, and then Danny sets up another sale. Then we get Danny and Tina Turner for handling and selling stolen goods, and Mia here turns state’s witness and gets sentenced to ‘time served’.”

Murtaugh looked at Santiago. Then back at Riggs. “No.”

“No?” Santiago and Riggs chorused. Riggs frowned at her and she looked at her boots again. “What do you mean no?” Riggs asked.

“First of all, what kind of high-end tech is Tina Turner going to want?” Murtaugh demanded. “Second of all, how is Mia supposed to just say ‘hey, Danny - so get this, I know where there’s some good stuff that we can rip off’?. Thirdly, how do we know these two can pull off a mini heist by themselves, and finally - but probably most importantly - how do we know that Tina Turner will want whatever it is and turn up for the sale? And can we arrest her this time?”

Riggs glared at him. “Why do you have to complicate everything? It’s a great idea, Rog. You’re just scared.”

“Scared?”

“Yeah - scared. You don’t want Avery to think you can’t get the cellphones back.”

“I don’t care about smartphones if we can get Tina Turner.”

“Well we’re not going to _get_ Tina Turner if we don’t go with my epic plan.”

“Your epic plan sucks.”

“ _You_ suck!”

“Hey! Hey! Stop!” Santiago cried, her hands up in surrender.

A buzzing noise made her and Murtaugh look at Riggs. He stepped back and pushed a hand in his pocket, his other wrist coming up to confirm that it was, as he suspected, dead-on midday. He put his phone to his ear. “The time is now twelve - hundred - hours,” he grinned. He ducked out of the kitchen and wandered off.

Murtaugh looked at Santiago. “Look, do you think you can pull this off?”

“To avoid going to jail?” she promoted. “Man, I’ll rip off Fort Knox if I have to.”

“But can you _do_ it?” he pressed.

She nodded slowly. “Yeah - I think we can. Me and Danny. We can do anything.”

Murtaugh eyed her, but she stood straighter and nodded. He rolled his eyes and left the kitchen, finding Riggs in the front room by the TV.

“Well I didn’t have anything else that would fit you,” Riggs was saying, his face straight. “You went through _all_ my drawers and that’s all I had. Right.” He paused. “I don’t know. But me and Rog have this _awesome_ idea for getting Tina Turner. No - I think the phones are probably gone. Although depending how quickly we can arrest her, we may be able to save some of them.” He smiled. “What? You don’t think me and Big Rog can do this? Emily, I’m hurt.” He nodded to himself. “Well then. Get your DEA stuff together and meet us at the station. We’ll plan something and get some balls rolling.” He listened for a moment. “Nah - I’ve got whiskey. I could use some toothpaste though - what did you do, eat half a tube this mornin’? —And Cheetos. No - you do _not_ have to pick up my laun—. _Yes_ I’m in my last pair of boxers but—. _Yes_ they’re the blue ones but—. Look, I’ll get my own laundry later, ok? Alright. Race you to the station.”

He cut the call and pushed the phone back in his pocket, turning to find Murtaugh and Santiago watching him, identical looks of expectation on their faces.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“I am not going to ask,” Murtaugh sighed.

“You and Wabash?” Santiago grinned. “I did _not_ see that coming.”

Riggs’ face transformed into an angry frown so fast she nearly stepped back. “Find out what Tina Turner wants - do it now,” he warned. She cleared her throat and went deeper into the apartment.

Murtaugh folded his arms and glared at Riggs. He put his hands in his back pockets and glared back. Murtaugh was not deterred. “Seriously, what’s going on here?”

“Well Emily is going to set some stuff up that Mia and Danny can steal once we know what Tina Turner would want, Mia should be finding out what Tina Turner _does_ want, and I’m arranging joint police-DEA stings.” He wandered closer to him. “The question is,” he said, lifting a finger and tapping it into a button on Murtaugh’s shirt, “what are _you_ doing?”

Murtaugh huffed. “I just think I deserve to know - what’s going on between you and Wabash?”

“You know, if that was any of your business, I _still_ wouldn’t tell you,” he sniffed. He walked on past him. “Mia! Let’s go! Come on - time’s a-wasting!”


	12. Chapter 12

Avery opened the door to his office, finding Bailey by the water cooler just outside. “Bailey - any idea where Riggs and Murtaugh are?”

She straightened up from the machine with a cup of fresh water. “Nope.”

“Find them - tell them there’s a DEA truck arriving in four hours with something they’ve asked for.”

She blinked. “Oh- _kay_.”

He nodded and went back inside, closing the door. She poked her head round the opaque wall to watch him sitting down behind his desk, picking up the desk phone and speaking into it quickly.

She shrugged to herself and went back to her desk, and her cellphone.

ooOoo

The lift doors, amused slightly by the goings-on of the various police officers toiling not far from its doors, was happy to slide wide and deposit an industrious Wabash on the right floor. She hefted a large canvas bag over her shoulder by its rope loop and walked through the open office to pause by Riggs’ desk. Finding it bereft of the detective, she looked around until she caught sight of Bailey watching her from twenty feet away.

“Good afternoon,” she said, making a beeline for her. “Where is Detective Riggs?”

“He’s on his way back here,” she said curiously. “Is there something you need, Agent?”

Wabash surveyed the room in a very unhurried way. “Not at this time. But thank you for asking.” She went back to Riggs’ desk and set down the canvas bag. She sat in his chair and swung it round, undoing the single button on her blazer and sliding back slightly to be more comfortable.

Bailey went back to her laptop. Then she paused before she turned back round. She got up and went over to Wabash. “You sure you don’t want a coffee or anything?”

“I am fine, thank you.”

“So… if you don’t mind me asking… what’s in the bag?”

“Items of a personal nature for the detective.”

“Right. Do you… uh… need any help with this case?”

Wabash looked up at her in surprise. “Are you offering to join the case?”

“Well… yeah. If you need anything.”

“Unfortunately the two detectives are most capable, otherwise it would have been agreeable to work with you,” she said tonelessly.

Bailey’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

“Yes. Detective Riggs thinks you are a very able, very smart officer.”

“Oh. Well… thanks.” She went to leave but turned back to her. “He said that?”

“He did. And although he gives Bowman a hard time, he also thinks he will one day be a fine officer.”

Bailey smiled. “Riggs is too nice.”

Wabash squinted up at her for a long moment. “He thinks he is not nice enough.”

Bailey pushed up a pile of pointless paperwork that had been abandoned on the edge of Riggs’ desk and sat on the corner. “I gotta ask… How did you beat up two men and kill another? At Charlie Tong’s place? Everyone’s dying to know.”

“I am not a heavy person, more’s the pity,” Wabash said. “I had to use their own momentum and weight against them.”

“And how did you do that?”

“Krav Maga, mostly,” she said.

Bailey grinned. “I see what Riggs likes about you.”

“He was an only child with a burdensome childhood; he did not have the chance to cavort with siblings for the sake of fun with no strings attached,” she said offhand. “Although he had close childhood friends, a sibling would have given him a more stable emotional bond.”

Bailey heard the lift doors ping and looked across the office to see the doors parting. Riggs and Murtaugh emerged and spotted her, Riggs waving cheerfully as they crossed the office. Bailey got up. “Well here they are. I’ll leave you to… _cavort_ with them both.”

“Never on duty,” Wabash said.

Murtaugh stopped by Bailey. “Got something for us?”

“Yeah - Avery wants you two to meet the DEA truck and decide where to accidentally-on-purpose stash the goods it’s carrying, so that you can do whatever it is you’re doing,” she said.

Riggs paused by his desk and looked down at the canvas holdall by his feet. “What’s all this?”

Wabash straightened in the chair. “Your laundry, some tooth—”

“My laundry?” he interrupted. “I said I’d get it later, Emily.”

“The laundromat was next to the liquor store,” she said. “In there you will find toothpaste, two bottles of whiskey, and a family pack of Cheetos. Did I miss anything?”

“Well that depends. You get original or new cheese taste Cheetos?” he asked, pre-occupied.

“Original, of course.”

He grinned and put a hand up without looking. She high-five’d him in silence, watching as he crouched and opened the rope neck to look in. “Ooh, whoa… expensive,” he said with awe, hefting out a litre bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label.

“I drank all your alcohol,” she shrugged. “I also got you an extra blanket for your couch - the other one is also in there. I had it laundered.”

“You,” Riggs grinned, straightening back up and swaying very close to point a finger at her nose, his face inches from hers, “are a _dude_.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking rather self-satisfied.

He grinned, scraped hair out of his eye, and turned back to the canvas bag.

Murtaugh and Bailey shared a long, confused look. Then Murtaugh cleared his throat. “So ah - are we going to work out where we want this truck parked? And how do we tell Mia where it’s going to be?”

Wabash pulled out her smartphone and her thumb swiped and tapped. “I shall send her a message suitable for interpretation, that she may show Danny Ortiguez. They will come to the conclusion that the truck is easy prey and contains something they can sell to Maria Jackson.”

“Who?” Bailey asked.

“Tina Turner,” Riggs and Murtaugh chorused.

“Oh,” Bailey nodded.

“Let’s contact this DEA driver and tell him where to be,” Murtaugh said, clapping his hands together and rubbing.

ooOoo

“We’re supposed to be laying low,” Ortiguez said, glaring at Santiago across the table.

“You want to let this one pass us by?” she argued. “When the boss gets back from New York she’s going to want to know what you been up to. _This_ ,” she said, brandishing the WhatsApp screen of her phone in his face, “is going to score you a right-hand-man position and me a lieutenant position.”

He huffed, reading the message for perhaps the fifth time. “And how do we know this intel is good?”

“Fine,” she snapped, bringing the phone back to her own eyes, tapping at keys with her thumb. “I’ll see who else wants to make money today.”

“Like who?” he asked indignantly.

She paused, her eyes rolling up. “Anyone. I’m here to get paid, Danny, not stand around debating why two good deals in one week is a bad thing.”

“Look… it’s just suspicious,” he said. “Why would that DEA chick tell you about a truck full of guns about to get turned into paperclips?”

“She didn’t. You’ve seen the message. She’s let on more than she thinks she has. Believe me, if she realised what she’d just let slip she’d be trying to delete the message.”

“Yeah - and I still don’t get how her telling you she won’t need you for a few weeks because another informant of hers is starting a prison term tells _you_ that there’s a truck full of guns waiting to be stolen.”

Santiago put the phone on the table. “You know Carlos, my prison connection?” she asked. Ortiguez folded his arms. “Well he knows that they can only take in one truck a week. Every week it’s full of guns the police have impounded. Every week it arrives under heavy guard and the prisoners spend the next week operating the machines that do all the paperclip-making, or licence plates, or whatever else they want. _This_ week the truck is prisoner transport - you know they can’t have a prisoner _and_ weapons in the same delivery. Some bullshit about safety and regs.”

“So?”

“So where’s the truck full of guns? It’s back at the police lot, waiting for next week’s delivery to the prison.”

Ortiguez sniffed, thinking. “Why load it up if they have to wait until next week?”

“Because someone else was supposed to deliver this prisoner but it got changed last minute. I don’t think _she_ knew about this till today.”

He sat back in his chair, staring at the wall. “So… we steal the truck, and the weapons. Then what?”

“Know anyone who wants them?”

“Word is Charlie Tong’s been arrested, so that new gang is out,” he mused.

“What about the Koreans?”

“Nah… they’re ok for guns for a while.” He scratched at the back of his head. “Who else do we know?”

“Those two black dudes who operate out of Glendale?”

“They’re into drugs right now.”

“And they don’t want guns to protect those drugs?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Then… who? I mean it’s gotta be someone with cash - someone we’ve sold to before, man.”

Ortiguez got up, wandering from the table to the rack down the side of the warehouse, heading for the coffee pot on the makeshift kitchenette. “Let me see if any of our other contacts want them.”

“So we get them anyway, and sit on them till we can sell them?” she asked.

“Sounds good.”

She glared at his back, biting back words. Then she sat at the table, pulling all her hair back and stretching her back out. “What you got on this afternoon, man?”

“Nothing,” he called over. “You?”

“That DEA agent paid me a few days back. I got enough cash to go to the movies,” she grinned.

“Who are you takin’?”

“Me,” she announced.

He turned and waved the coffee pot out. “You want some?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

He shrugged and put the pot back, then carried his cup back over to the table. “You know you could find yourself someone to take to the movies.”

“Yeah but then I’d have to change my shirt and share my popcorn,” she quipped.

He smiled. “I been thinking… about the long term.”

“Whoa - you ok, man?”

“Shut up,” he smiled. “Just… do we do this over and over until we get rich? Then what?”

“Uh… I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Retire?”

“To where? And who with?”

“Anywhere you want. South America, Southeast Asia… Some place like that.”

“By myself?” he asked critically.

“Well get yourself a woman, stupid,” Santiago grinned. “Shit, I know plenty of people who’d shack up with you and your millions on some tropical island.”

“Would _you_?” he asked.

Her face dropped. She cleared her throat, then sat up properly and rested her elbows on the table. Her hands came out in surrender. “Now, don’t take this the wrong way, Danny, but… you’re not really… I mean you’re not my type. You’re my best friend, man, but…”

He waved a hand at her. “Not like that. I just mean… You and me, right? It’s always you and me. Heist bros. Why can’t we Bonnie and Clyde our way into the sunset together too?”

“Bonnie and Clyde were killed.”

“They were?”

“Horrifically.”

“Oh.”

She grinned. “But yeah, we could do that. You and me, retirement… Hell we’ll get call-girls and call-boys, drinks, a fancy house somewhere hot the US police can’t go. I mean why not?”

He sipped his coffee. “Thanks, man.”

“But we gotta make money first,” she sighed. “One massive score, one huge deal.” She paused. “This gun thing could be it, Danny. We could do it.”

“We need a buyer,” he warned.

“Anyone - anyone who wants guns, or has ready money to throw at us.”

He took another mouthful of coffee. “Yeah. I like it when people throw money at us.” He swallowed more caffeine, then jerked slightly, looking at her. “People who throw money at us! What about the woman at the warehouse? She literally threw us thirty-five grand for those cellphones.”

Santiago grinned. “Yes she did.” She folded her arms. “You think you can get her interested?”

“Yeah, I bet I can,” he said. “And this time we’re not taking a discount.”

She nodded. “You’re damn right we’re not.”

ooOoo

Riggs scooted down in the passenger seat of the car, a rifle sight in his hand and the elbow balanced on the window block. He sniffed and shuffled to be more comfortable. His attention was wholly and generously centred on a van parked roughly fifty feet away from them, against the side of the warehouse.

Murtaugh shifted in the driver’s seat of his own car. “When are you going to tell me?”

Riggs yawned. “Tell you what, man?”

“What’s going on with you and Miss Congeniality of the DEA?”

Riggs smiled to himself. “Is it really baking your noodle?”

“No,” he said defensively. “I just - you know, as friends - I thought we could share.”

“She’s an excellent drinking partner. You know why?”

“Why? I’m intrigued.”

“She just drinks. Sometimes she says things. But she never asks me to talk about things I don’t want to talk about,” Riggs said.

“And you don’t think she’s in this for more than your whiskey?” he grinned. “I mean she bought you _Blue Label_ , man.”

“We were playing a drinking game and she lost.” Riggs paused. “And her salary is significantly higher than mine.”

“You don’t even spend yours! I mean you don’t pay rent, you don’t pay pitching fees or spend money on clothes, food, parking—. What _do_ you spend your money on?”

Riggs smiled, broadly and with conviction. “Booze, Rog. Booze and ammo.”

Murtaugh rolled his eyes. “Well spend some on a shirt, will you? Trish still wants you to come round for dinner and we have to keep up the pretence that I bought you a new one.”

“I am aware. However it’s more fun to—.” He stopped short, sitting up a little straighter. “Uh-oh. We have two thieves, one o’clock. Looks like they’re stealing a truck. Maybe we should call the police.”

Murtaugh tutted and picked up his binoculars, zooming in on the DEA van parked by the warehouse. “Oh no,” he said faintly. “A crime is definitely in progress.”

They watched as someone bearing a striking resemblance to Danny Ortiguez started the truck, a dead ringer to Mia Santiago climbing up to sit in the passenger seat. She hauled the door shut after her, looked out of the open window, then threw an arm out and slapped twice at the metal door.

The truck turned and pulled out of the police parking lot, joining the lane of cars completely innocuously, melting into the evening traffic.

“Phase one complete,” Riggs said. “What next?”

ooOoo

Santiago pushed the door open, grinning as she spun into the warehouse. She bounced her way over to the single table. She twirled to a stop and folded her arms, watching Ortiguez follow her in. “Well?” she grinned. “Told you, man. Easy.”

“So far,” he warned. “Now all we got to do is hope that Maria Jackson woman wants them like she said she does.”

“If she tries to stiff us, we bail and call the cops on her,” Santiago nodded.

Ortiguez put his hands up in surrender. “Whoa - you want to double-cross her?”

“No I don’t _want_ to,” she scoffed. “But one wrong move? We get her arrested. I am _not_ taking her shit again just cos she’s going to give us money.”

He started to smile, his hands dropping. “I like how you think.”

She gestured to his hand with her head. “So… when’s this deal going down? I got some prep to do.”

“Like what?”

Santiago smiled. “Trust me. Pretty soon it’s going to be you, me, a shit-tonne of money and a non-extradition beach.”

ooOoo

Wabash picked up her handgun from the desk, checking it was loaded. She took two magazines from the desk, pocketing them and then two more, putting them in her left jacket pocket. The door to the small office opened and her head went up to check the arrival.

“Hey,” Riggs said. “You good to go?”

Murtaugh appeared behind him. “We’re all ready for you.”

She nodded, whisking her jacket open to push her gun into its holster. “Ready when you are, Detectives.”

Riggs crossed to her, pulling his left hand out from behind him. He lifted it to produce a bullet proof vest hanging off his finger. “Uh… Do me a favour.”

She blinked at him. “I am confident you know how to put one of those on.”

“It’s not for me.”

Her eyes went past him to Murtaugh, then back to his. “Why?”

“I’m confident you know what these are for,” he said with a quiet smile.

“You don’t have one.”

“No.”

“Murtaugh has one.”

“Yes.”

“Then that is yours and you should wear it,” she said.

“Emily… just put the damn vest on, ok?” he sighed.

Her mouth squirreled to one side. “Why?”

“Because you’re not used to falling out of trees. The one time you _do_ is when you get hurt.”

She let out a tiny, shiny smile. “I understand.” She took it from him, then looked past him to Murtaugh. “Also, you cannot afford to have a DEA agent wounded for the second time on your turf.”

Murtaugh raised his eyebrows. “I can’t even get _him_ to wear one. You do what you gotta do,” he said, before turning and leaving the room.

Wabash looked at him. “If you will not wear one, then can you at least be careful?”

“Well… maybe just this once,” he smiled.

“Satisfactory,” she nodded.

He grinned and turned, and then walked out of the office to find themselves in the open office area.

Murtaugh was already in the middle, talking to the circle of officers. “The target is Maria Jackson,” he was saying, pointing off to one side at the large whiteboard of suspects.

“Who?” Bailey asked, from the other side of the room.

“Tina Turner,” Murtaugh said. The entire room gave a synchronised ‘oh’ of realisation. “Everyone and everything else is secondary - except the truck full of guns. They _do not_ get out into the wild, ok?” he added. Officers nodded and murmured between themselves. “You’ve got your groups and you’ve got your team leaders, right? So let’s go to an arms deal and arrest everyone in sight.” He clapped his hands and the room broke up, heading off in smaller groups for either a desk or an elevator.

Wabash slipped off her jacket, handing it to Riggs. He took it from her as she pulled the vest on over her head. He put the collar of her jacket in his teeth and turned to her, helping her to line up the Velcro fastenings at the sides, then strapping her in securely. He put her jacket back in her hand. “You good?” he asked, lifting a closed fist and bumping the bottom edge into the front plate just above the word ‘Police’.

She nodded. “Let’s go.”

He turned to find Murtaugh watching him. Wabash walked off toward the lifts. Murtaugh came closer to Riggs, his arms folded, and leant in to keep his voice down. “She’s leaving soon.”

“Well like now,” Riggs said, surprised. “She’s already at the elevator.”

“Riggs - she’s here to do a job. Tomorrow morning… she may be gone.”

He frowned at him, and Murtaugh took in the yellow-green areas of his face that used to be black eyes caused by a broken nose. The patch over his eye, still held in place with now grubby tape, waited out the scrutiny. Finally Riggs’ mouth opened. “Let’s go arrest some people and stop some guns getting back into circulation.”

He pushed past Murtaugh. He turned and watched him go. Then he shook his head, his eyes on his own feet. He looked up suddenly to realise Avery was watching him from his open office door. They shared a look.

Murtaugh huffed to himself, straightened up, and followed his partner to the lifts.

ooOoo

“And here we are again,” Murtaugh sighed under his breath. “Why are we always at stake-outs after dark?”

“It’s when they do business, Rog,” Riggs muttered, pre-occupied. His boot was up against the glovebox of the car dash, his right elbow on his knee to keep the sniper sight to his one good eye. He glared out of the window, watching the open car park below them.

“You know you need to take the cap off that so you can see,” Murtaugh grinned. “Looks pretty dark, don’t it?”

“It’s tinted to stop glare giving away your position,” Riggs muttered.

Murtaugh’s face fell. He reached up to the dash and took his own pair of binoculars, lifting them to his face and scouring the parking lot. “What time did Mia say?”

“One a.m.”

“Right.” He flicked a look at his wrist. “Nearly there.”

ooOoo

Wabash peered through the binoculars. “Two minutes,” she said. “Ready?”

The van full of officers muttered replies. Bailey, from the front seat, took one more look at the photo of Maria Jackson propped up on the dashboard. “Just making sure I’ll recognise her without her white suit.”

“Good,” Wabash said.

“You know, I thought you’d be in the car with Riggs and Murtaugh,” Bailey smiled.

“Our interests are better served while we are split up,” she replied evenly. “Besides, I now have a reason to work with you.”

Bailey smiled to herself. “Oh I think I’ve got the better deal out of this arrangement.” She frowned as something came into range below them. “First vehicle has arrived.”

Everyone turned to the windows of the van, trying to make out the dark vehicle under the public lighting.

“Can anyone identify the party inside?” Wabash asked.

“Trying,” Bailey said.

A buzz caused Wabash’s hand to go into her jacket pocket. She produced her cellphone and raised it, unlocking it with her thumb to read the message. “Riggs has a positive ID - it’s Mia Santiago and Danny Ortiguez.” She put the phone back in her pocket.

“How did he see that from there?” Bailey wondered.

“He has superior equipment and a lower vantage point,” she said.

“Meaning?” Bailey grinned.

“Sniper sights,” she said innocently. She let her binoculars drop and looked through the van to Bailey. “What did you think I meant?”

“Second vehicle arriving,” she said gladly.

Wabash pushed an earpiece into her ear and pressed the back of it. “Sound off,” she ordered.

The other three officers in the van quickly produced their own earpieces and circled them round ears where needed, slotting them into ear canals.

“Wabash,” she said aloud, hearing the echo in her own ear.

“Bailey.”

“Waters.”

“Cobb.”

“Hernandez.”

Wabash nodded. She picked up her phone and sent some kind of text message. Slipping it back in her pocket she raised her binoculars again.

Bailey straightened up. “Third vehicle - and a fourth.” She paused. “How many people are in on this deal?”

Wabash gave an unimpressed huff. “It appears Maria Jackson does not take chances. The cars are identical save the licence plates; they are more than likely her security entourage.”

“Perfect,” Bailey sighed.

“Hey guys!” came a jovial voice through their earpieces. “We got a party going on down there - were we expectin’ all these guests?”

Wabash pressed at the back of the earpiece. “Not quite, Martin.”

“You givin’ the order or do I?” he asked.

Bailey smiled and caught a few of the other officers trying to pretend they weren’t also amused.

“Wait,” Wabash said. “We need to ensure Maria Jackson is in one of those vehicles.”

“Well I ain’t here for the night air, dude,” he replied.

Everyone watched as the vans all came to a stop, noses pointed toward the first to arrive in the centre.

Two figures got out of the centre van, each with a hand behind them to a weapon in the back of their clothes. One person stepped out of a van in front of them; a tall male with his hand similarly stowed.

Wabash pressed her earpiece. “Wait - everyone wait for Maria to appear. Once she’s out in the open and money has physically changed hands, we go in.”


	13. Chapter 13

The man came forward, a hand to something stowed in the back of his black trousers. “Danny?” he asked.

The truck doors opened and Danny Ortiguez jumped down. Mia Santiago appeared from the passenger side, walking round the front of the truck slowly. She came to a stop next to him.

“Yeah,” Ortiguez said with due caution. “Who are you?”

“The help,” he said. “What’s in the truck?”

“Guns,” Santiago said. She walked round Ortiguez to the rear doors. “You want them or what?”

“Step away from the door,” he said.

She backed up one, her hands up in surrender. “It’s unlocked. See for yourself.”

He crossed the parking lot, his hand still on the weapon in the back of his trousers. As he neared the door he paused. He stood to one side. “Open that door.”

She leant over and yanked on the handle, swinging the large metal door open steadily. “All crated up, ready for melting down or whatever it is they do with them.”

He looked at the wooden crates, then back at her. “Open the nearest one. Show me.”

She huffed but hauled herself up into the back of the truck. “This is some hard work, man,” she grumbled. “We’re not taking a discount, you get me?”

“That’s not for me to decide,” he said with a smile.

She took a crowbar from the inside wall of the truck and levered it under the top edge of the wooden crate. She wrenched and it splintered and gave; she shoved the bar further in and levered again. The top popped up an inch and then fell again. She put down the crowbar and lifted the lid. Her hand went in and came out with a handgun. She shook packing material from it and checked the magazine was removed - and the chamber was empty - before reversing it and coming back to the door of the truck. She offered the handle to him.

He took it, turning the weapon over and over. “No serial number.”

“As expected.”

He sniffed it, then turned it over again. “Munitions?”

“We said guns, not ammo,” she said. “We were very clear.”

“Yes, you were.” He handed her back the gun. “Close it all up.”

She turned and tossed the gun back in the crate before pushing the lid back mostly in place. She jumped out of the truck and turned to close the door again.

He was lifting the collar on his black jacket. “All as promised,” he said quietly. “No. But they said that when we made the offer,” he added. Santiago wiped her hands together, watching him. He turned away to find Ortiguez was wandering closer to hear.

“Everything cool?” he asked Santiago.

She glared. “Something’s not right.”

They turned and watched the man in the black suit. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think so.” He paused. “Right.” He let go of the jacket and turned to face them. “Five hundred.”

“What?” Santiago spluttered. “The deal was for nine hundred thousand. Tell her - _nine hundred thousand_.”

He gave a non-committal shrug. “She’s offering five.”

“This ain’t that type of deal, man,” Ortiguez said. “We said nine, and she agreed to nine. Now she turns up and says five? No. Deal’s off.”

“You sure?” the man asked, his eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, we’re sure,” Santiago spat. “The deal was for nine. She can get her weapons someplace else for five.” She patted a hand into Ortiguez’s shoulder and he made for the side of the truck, toward the driver’s door. “And tell her we’re insulted. We thought we had a deal. You don’t just turn up and offer like half what you said you would. If she can’t even keep her word - if her word means nothing? Then forget it. Pleasure _not_ doing business, and happy trails.” She marched off round the other side, toward the passenger door.

ooOoo

“No no no,” Murtaugh hissed, watching through binoculars. “Why are they getting back in the truck? What’s happening?”

Riggs sat up straight, staring through the sight. “Maybe… a disagreement? Money?”

“Mia knows we need Tina Turner, right?”

“Yeah, we were pretty clear on that point.” Riggs paused. “Maybe this is her way of getting her to make an appearance.”

“It’d better be,” he muttered.

“Why are they withdrawing?” came a voice through their earpieces.

“Hey - sit tight, Emily,” Riggs replied. “We’re hoping this is forcing Tina Turner to get out of one of those vans.”

“She had better - we need visual confirmation and evidence she’s in charge of the deal, or all this is off.”

“We’re aware,” Murtaugh groused.

ooOoo

“You sure you’re just going to leave?” the man called after them. “Five hundred thousand is still five hundred thousand.”

Ortiguez paused. He opened the driver’s door but he looked through the truck to find Santiago glaring at him. “Does he have a point?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Five hundred thousand is _not_ what was agreed. She’s not turning up here, giving us like a massive discount, and _still_ getting the goods. If she wants she can take five hundred thousand’s worth of goods and leave us the rest. But she’s _not_ getting all of this for five. And if this is how she’s going to play us? She can forget the whole damn thing.”

He nodded. He turned to look at the man. “Nah. Sorry. It’s not you, man - it’s her. She promised us nine, and we came for nine. We’re not taking five.” He gave a helpless shrug and turned back to the driver’s seat.

“Wait,” the man called. He turned away and lifted his jacket again. He started talking.

Ortiguez looked through the truck at Santiago. She shrugged and waited.

The man looked over. “Seven.”

Santiago slammed her door and marched around the vehicle, brushing past Ortiguez as she went up to the man. “Nine,” she seethed. “Nine was the agreement. So not five, not seven, not _anything_ that isn’t nine. I can’t be clearer, man. Tell her this is not fair and we’re leaving. Unless you want to tell her to actually get her ass out here and _I’ll_ tell her to her face. Then it’s not on you.”

He smiled slightly. He lifted his jacket. “Still nine. Yes. Adamant. Reasonable. But intractable.”

Santiago folded her arms. Ortiguez came up next to her. “What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know but it don’t sound polite,” she snapped.

“Wait here - _please_ ,” he smiled. He let go of his lapel and walked back to his black van.

The two of them shared a look before they slowly wheeled around to watch the goings-on behind them.

The man slid back the rear door of the van, planted his hands on the edges, and leant his head in. He was in there nearly two minutes before Santiago and Ortiguez huffed and folded their arms.

“She’s not going for it,” Ortiguez muttered.

“Double-crossing bitch,” Santiago grumped. “She agreed to nine, man. She can’t just turn up and say five.”

“Seven.”

She nudged his elbow with hers. “No. We are not taking a discount, remember? Seven will get us a beach but nine will set us up.”

“Beach?”

“Beach, man. You, me, a non-extradition beach. Just focus on that.” She looked back at the van. “She is _not_ standing between us and our beach.” She flicked a look at her watch.

“Yeah,” Ortiguez nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.”

The man leant back out of the van. He tipped a hand at the pair of them. Mia just raised her eyebrows. The man turned back to the van, said something, and then walked over to them. “She says eight.”

“Eight!” Santiago shouted. “ _Vete a la chingada_ , lady!” She pushed past him and went straight to the driver’s door of the truck.

ooOoo

Wabash pressed at the unit in her ear. “Mia is trying very hard, but I don’t believe Maria Jackson will want to emerge from her van.”

“Just give her a chance,” came Riggs’ response. “She knows we need Tina Turner or it’s her own ass.”

“If Mia’s truck leaves, then we move,” Wabash said.

“Understood.”

Wabash let go of the earpiece and sighed through her nose. She realised Bailey was watching her. She turned slightly. “Mia will get her out of the truck. She will.”

“You don’t sound very confident.”

“I have known Mia for two years. Martin is right - she will do everything she can to avoid taking the rap herself, and getting Maria Jackson arrested is the most effective way to accomplish that.”

“Ok,” Bailey shrugged. “I hope she’s as determined as you think.”

Wabash said nothing. She turned back to the binoculars, picking them up and focusing on the vans still parked with their noses in a circle in the dark parking lot.

ooOoo

The man went back to main van, sticking his head in. Abruptly he pulled back out. “Wait!” he called.

Santiago was already in the driver’s seat. She leant her head out of the window. “If the next word out of your mouth isn’t ‘nine’ then there’s nothing to wait for!” she called back.

He smiled, shaking his head. He looked back at the open door of the van. He said something else and then nodded, stepping back and out of the way.

Santiago held her breath, watching. Ortiguez moved away from her driver’s door.

From the black recesses of the van came a bright red boot. It made it to the tarmac, its three inch heel connecting with a slight click. The matching red trousers that accompanied it were slim-fit, and as the rest of the suit appeared in the same shade of business Santiago let the door open so she could see better.

Maria Jackson slid free of the van and took three steps away from the safety of the vehicle. Her hands went to her hips. “I _said_ you were wasted working on your own,” she announced.

Santiago got out of the truck and shut the door deliberately. “You also said nine. What gives? Why are you giving us a hard time, going back on your word?” she accused.

“That was a little test,” she smiled.

“Test? Look, do you want the guns or not, lady? We don’t got all night, here.”

Jackson grinned. “One of these days you _will_ end up working for me.”

“That’s if we don’t all die of old age waiting to do this deal tonight,” she shot back. “Nine hundred thousand. Soon. Like, in the next few minutes.”

Jackson turned and looked back at the van. A case appeared and she reached back and grabbed it. She walked across the tarmac slowly, her hair blowing slightly in the night air. She stopped in front of Ortiguez. “Is this your assistant?”

“He can take the money, yeah,” Santiago allowed. “How do we know it’s all there?”

“Count it if you wish,” she said.

Ortiguez put his hand out. “I think I will. No hard feelings.”

“Oh, none taken,” she said. “You have stuck to your guns - literally - for this. It’s all there. But please, take your time counting it. We’ll be leaving with the truck.”

“It’s stolen,” Santiago said. “You should probably dump it first chance you get.”

Jackson smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you for your concern, but this is not my first arms deal.”

“If you get caught with that it could lead back to us. Make sure you get rid of it,” she said.

Jackson lifted the case and held it out. “Here. All yours.”

Ortiguez took the handle from her and stepped back. He looked at Santiago.

She let a small smile pull at the side of her mouth. “Thanks. We’re out of here.” She grabbed Ortiguez’s arm and pulled. They started to walk away.

Jackson turned and watched them go, back toward the building at the edge of the parking lot. She realised there was a dark car parked at the side of the building and smiled to herself. “Ok,” she called. “Let’s go. Get this truck unloaded and our goods in the vans - you’ve got two minutes and then we’re out of here.”

Men and women swarmed out of the vans and descended on the truck like locusts. Four were at the rear doors, two more inside, three more heading to help, and more heading for the driver’s door.

Lights suddenly lit up the entire car park - everyone froze. Then they looked around, up - anywhere - trying to find the source.

“LAPD! Everyone stay where you are!” came a voice.

“Shit!” Jackson turned and ran for the van. She dived in just as it started up. The door slid shut.

The man by the driver’s door drew a gun. Something moved on the embankment above. He looked up to find officers running down it, guns drawn. He fired a single shot - that was all it took. The officers opened fire.

Jackson’s van screeched round in a circle to aim for the parking lot exit. The lights picked up Santiago and Ortiguez. They were scrabbling to get into the hidden car. Ortiguez pulled a handgun as Santiago yanked at the driver’s door.

Wabash had reached the tarmac. She levelled her gun at the men and women at the rear doors of the truck. “Everyone! Drop your weapons! We are LAPD! And DEA!”

They didn’t think. Diving for cover, they fired back at the officers flanking everyone.

Riggs and Murtaugh slipped down the rest of the grassy hill and landed on the smooth black surface. “Get the drivers! Go!” Murtaugh shouted.

Riggs took off running to his right. Something shot at him. He leapt for the grass to his right. He landed on his elbows. Grunting something unkind he used them to bolster both hands. He aimed and took out the two side tyres on Jackson’s van.

It skidded to one side and rammed into the exit gate. It crunched to a stop. Officers flocked past him and descended on the van. “Hands off the wheel! Keep them where I can see them!” Bailey shouted. The driver’s hands were thrust out of the window as he started shouting something back.

Riggs turned his attention to the other vans in the car park. More of them were starting up, believing they could escape past the captured vehicle. He turned and found a new stable position. He aimed and another van lost a front tyre. He moved from vehicle to vehicle, successfully getting one tyre each.

Wabash grasped a man by his collar, forcing him down to his knees. “Hands behind your head!” she demanded. A shot ricocheted off the side of the truck next to her head. She crouched and yanked out her handcuffs. She slapped them on him securely, then pushed him to his face on the ground. “Stay down - stay alive,” she ordered. He did not complain. She poked her head out round the truck. Shots just missed her. She edged back, keeping low, until she was at the other end of the truck. She flattened herself to the ground and looked under the truck to the vans all abandoned in various emergency stops. Her gun came up and she shuffled under the truck to be closer to the other side. She found two women with guns trained on the truck. She fired - one dropped a gun. The other fired but Wabash fired back. She dropped with an angry cry. The women next to her clutched her hand but grabbed for her colleague even as she fell.

Wabash looked around. A black car was slowly moving past everyone at the back, as if tip-toeing around all the other vehicles. She frowned, confused, as the sleek old car simply trundled past the fire fights.

And then the window opened. Santiago put a hand up. She pointed at Wabash - and nodded. And then the window went up and the car stole all the way to the exit gate.

Wabash pressed at her earpiece. “The Chevrolet exiting the main gate! Stop them! It’s Mia and Danny!”

Voices clamoured as more shots were fired. Wabash felt something pound into her side. She hissed and pushed herself back under the truck to come out the other side. She pushed at the earpiece again. “How many assailants do we still have? Anyone?”

“Five,” came Riggs’ reply in her ear. “Four. Wait - gimme a minute.”

“Don’t kill them! We need them!” she cried. “Do we have Jackson?”

“We got her,” Murtaugh confirmed. “Everyone - sit-rep! Where you all at? Everyone ok?”

“Bailey here - got two in cuffs by the gate.”

“Waters - I’m pinned down, by the truck. I can see Agent Wabash behind the truck. Agent - are you hit?”

Wabash felt down her side. “It went in the vest. Who else?”

“Cobb - I’m ok. Got three by the embankment, in cuffs. Trying to spot more.”

“Hernandez, sir - I’m ok. Got one in cuffs. Trying to get to Detective Murtaugh to help him. Looks like you’ve got two, sir.”

“I have,” Murtaugh said. “Anyone got eyes on Riggs?”

Silence.

“Riggs - sound off, man. Where are you?” Murtaugh asked.

Silence.

Wabash pushed herself back from the truck. She sat upright and then looked to her right. She caught sight of Detective Waters trying to fire back at assailants from behind a stranded van. She edged up to the end of the truck, peeping round. She aimed and took out one gun, then another.

Waters panted back breath, then looked across to see her. She nodded her thanks. Wabash nodded and they slowly poked their heads further round.

The parking lot had come to a stop. People were either lying on the ground or sitting with their hands cuffed, detectives wandering between them with notebooks. Sirens, somewhere far off, caught Wabash’s attention as she stood. She looked back at Waters. She was creeping out gradually, her gun pointed at the sky by her right ear, to assess the situation.

Wabash pressed the earpiece. “Situation?”

“We got… Tina Turner and her driver,” Murtaugh replied. “And we got… this guy who seems to be her official go-between. Then we got ten more people, look like just heavies or back-up. Most importantly, we got the truck and all the crates look sealed.”

“As planned. Good work, everyone,” Wabash said, taking a deep breath and blowing it all out. “Any injuries?”

“A couple of grazes. Seems like everyone wore a vest when they were told to,” Murtaugh said, a smile in his voice. “Riggs - Riggs you can come out now, master sniper.”

Silence.

Wabash looked around. “Who got the Chevrolet?”

“What Chevrolet?” Murtaugh asked.

“The one I told everyone to stop before it left the parking lot,” she snapped. She turned and jogged toward the exit, and Maria Jackson’s stationary van. She found Bailey and Murtaugh there. “Did you see it leave?”

“We tried to stop it but it was drawing fire, same as us,” Bailey said. “It just got by us.”

“Did it fire on you?” she asked.

“No,” Bailey said, confused. “It just… sneaked by us, like they thought we couldn’t see them if they went real slow.”

“Well it worked,” Murtaugh said. “I mean they’re not here, right? So we lost them.” He looked at Wabash. “Who do you think it was?”

“Mia and Danny,” she sighed, folding her arms.

“Damn,” Murtaugh hissed.

An ambulance and two medical support vehicles came through the gate slowly, cutting their sirens but leaving their lights flashing. They crept through carefully, finding somewhere to stop by the truck. Paramedics leapt out and started making enquiries.

Murtaugh ran a hand down his face then pressed at his earpiece. “Hey! Riggs! Dammit man, answer me!” He turned in a circle. “Anyone have eyes on Riggs? Who saw him last and what the hell was he doing?”

“Not me.”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t see.”

“I saw him by Tina Turner’s van,” said Waters down the commline. “After that - no clue.”

Wabash pulled her phone from her jeans pocket. She pressed quickly at buttons and slapped it to her ear. Bailey and Murtaugh watched her with worry. “Martin - where the hell are you?” she snapped. Bailey blinked and shared a wary look with Murtaugh. “Busey Street? What are you doing th—. Are you hurt? What do you mean, ‘define hurt’? How did you even get there?” She huffed. “I don’t want to hear it. Get back here. No - _now_.” She paused. “I said no. If you’re not back here in five minutes I’ll find you. And you’ll damn well wish I hadn’t.” She cut the call and rammed the phone back in her pocket. She took a steadying breath and let it out. “He is unhurt,” she said, much more evenly.

“For now,” Bailey snorted. Wabash looked at her and she straightened. “So… let’s get everyone back to the station,” Bailey added brightly. She turned and walked off as fast as was polite.

Murtaugh smiled as he holstered his gun and popped the top shut. He folded his arms. “Infuriating, isn’t he?” he teased. “Makes me wonder what any woman would see in him.”

“His willingness to take people for who they are, despite appearances,” she said, pre-occupied.

Murtaugh cleared his throat. “So… what is going on? I mean, with you two?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I never seen him take orders, but I bet dollars to doughnuts he’ll get back here in under five minutes because you told him to.” He sniffed. “Just, you know, if you’re leaving soon then maybe you shouldn’t have started something.”

She turned to face him square on. “Three years ago I lost my brother. Now I have found him again.” She brushed past him and walked off, to find Bailey speaking with a paramedic still tending to a woman’s hand past her cuffs.

Murtaugh shook his head slowly. He reached into his pocket and dug out his phone. He pressed at a missed call and waited for the line to connect, putting it to his ear. “Yeah, Avery, hi. It’s all over. We got her. We got everyone.” He smiled to himself. “Yeah, man. No serious injuries our side. We got everyone except Mia and Danny. Uh… I don’t know, we haven’t searched the vans yet. We have the guns - all still present and correct. Ok. Go to bed. I’ll do my report in the morning.” He put the phone back in his pocket, then turned and surveyed the carnage of the parking lot.


	14. Chapter 14

Wabash sniffed and straightened her back, pulling her lazy ponytail out from behind her neck. She re-read the last few lines of her report from the laptop screen. Then she sat back, comfortably kneeling at the wooden table and contemplating the roof lining of the trailer.

She heard a snort and a grumble and closed the lid of the laptop to see across the table. Riggs, laid out flat on his back on the couch, was raising a hand, slowly moving a brand new blanket from his face. He squinted around the trailer for a moment before he realised she was sitting opposite him from ten feet away.

“Hey,” he managed.

She smiled. “Morning. I have finished my report.”

“That’s great,” he rumbled. He scrubbed at his face, then pushed himself up and round to sit. “What’s happening?”

She pressed at the table to get to her feet. Turning to the kitchen area she picked up a take-out coffee cup and ran the kitchen tap, rinsing it out. She shook it empty and then set it next to a thermal flask on the drainer. She unscrewed the lid and poured out half a cup of hot coffee. She put the lid back on and then took him the cup, sitting next to him.

He took it gratefully, closing his eye to sip it and sigh to himself. She put a hand on his shoulder and patted slowly, then left it there. “I’ll let you copy my report. You can change the important bits yourself.”

He smiled. “You don’t need to do that.”

“All you have to do is explain where you were while we were arresting people.”

“I was chasing the Chevy with Mia and Danny in it,” he said, taking another sip. “They went down a couple of side roads but I crossed down the back. I had them - and then I lost them. If I had to guess - or draw conclusions, which you know we’re not supposed to do - then I’d say they were heading to an airport.”

“And that was over eight hours ago,” she said. “Where do you think they went?”

“Mexico?” he shrugged. “No idea.”

“Hmm. Mia is smart, and she plans. I doubt they would go somewhere so close.”

“Then… somewhere we’re not allowed to go and get her back from.”

“Agreed.” She patted at his shoulder. “You look terrible. Get a shower.”

“It’s ok, I always look like this.”

“Not acceptable - your various bandages are definitely in need of a change.” She got up. “Get a shower and then we’ll see if any of them can be taken off for good.”

“Yes ma’am.” He put down his cup and forced himself off the couch. She leant back and waited as he yanked off his boots and socks, then his heavy shirt. He rummaged through drawers for a clean towel and then disappeared into the cramped bathroom unit.

By the time he was out, wrapped in a towel but still managing to drip on the carpet, she was fast asleep.

He smiled, covered her with the blanket, and then did his best to get dressed. And get more coffee.

ooOoo

“And that’s it?” Avery asked.

“It’s all in the report,” Murtaugh shrugged. He settled back into the chair in Avery’s office, content to wait for further questions.

Avery’s head tilted and he appraised him for a long moment. “So we have Maria Jackson, we have the guns… we didn’t get the smartphones or Mia, or Danny, but we did get most of Jackson’s lieutenants and enough small operatives that we can get what we need from them…” He nodded. “Not a bad haul, Roger, not bad at all.”

“Thank you,” he grinned.

“Agent Wabash has already filed her report with her superiors - I’ve already had a ‘thank you’ email from her boss this morning.”

“Fast work.”

“That’s what I thought.” He paused. “How _did_ we tie all those cars to Jackson, by the way?”

Murtaugh grinned. “We had an anonymous tip, from someone who I guess runs a garage in Chinatown. They seemed to know all the chassis numbers and have all the invoices and payments for work on those vans - and all signed off by Jackson.”

“An anonymous tip?” Avery smiled.

“Yeah. It’s amazing what well-meaning, helpful members of the public will do when you give them a chance.”

Avery leant back in his chair. “As long as it’s water-tight, I don’t care.”

“Oh it is that.”

“You know I have to ask,” Avery added, his eyes darting to the empty chair and then back at Murtaugh.

He glanced at the chair before looking back at him. “Believe it or not - he’s sleeping it off.”

“The stake-out or the drink after?”

“Possibly both. But if Wabash has already filed her report, I reckon he just passed out from exhaustion before he even got near a bottle.”

Avery sighed. “Well he’d better be in later for the debrief.”

“I’ll make sure he is.”

“Then… that’s all, Roger. Thanks.”

“You are welcome, Captain.” He grinned and left the room. As he crossed the open office, he caught sight of Bailey and Waters talking by her desk. “Ladies,” he announced as he stopped by them. “What’s the excitement?”

“Oh,” Bailey said, surprised he was there. “Waters was just telling me what she saw last night.”

“Is that right?” Murtaugh smiled. He looked at the shorter Waters. “And what did you see, Detective?”

She smiled. “Agent Wabash crawling under trucks to shoot people.”

“I hope that’s in her report,” Murtaugh said politely.

“It’s in mine,” Waters said. “She didn’t even stop when she got shot - I mean it was in the vest but she didn’t check that till like ages later.”

“Ok, alright,” Murtaugh said, putting a palm up. “Everyone thinks she’s amazing - I get it.”

“She lost her main informant though,” Bailey said. “That’s not going to sit well with her boss.”

“Maybe not, but we have to hope that taking down Maria Jackson and all her crew will make it up to her.”

“True,” Bailey smiled. “Funny, Mia and Danny getting away like that,” she added. “I mean, out of a whole parking lot crawling with gun dealers and cops, they just slowly drive away like that.”

“Something tells me they had the whole thing planned, right down to the get-away car,” he said.

Waters nodded. “Where do you think they are now?”

ooOoo

Santiago dumped the huge duffle bag on the bed and walked past it all to the tall balcony doors. She opened the wooden shutters and then the glass panes to find a white sandy beach waiting. She grinned and breathed in, walking out onto the balcony and leaning on the wooden railings.

She heard a noise to the left and watched as the occupant of the room next to hers did the same. He turned his head to the right, leaning on his own balcony, and grinned.

“Hey, Danny,” she called over.

“Hey, Mia,” he called back.

“So the Maldives ok so far?” she grinned.

He laughed. “Man… I _knew_ you’d do something like this. Where even are we? I fall asleep on a plane and wake up in some weird place that looks like paradise.”

She folded her arms. “Not far from Sri Lanka, if that helps.”

“And where is that?”

“Somewhere the FBI, CIA, DEA - all the letters - they can’t extradite us from,” she said. “Don’t worry, man, I got it all fixed.”

“I don’t doubt.”

“We got nine hundred thousand between us, and we got bank accounts with a million in each. And this cabin? We own it - outright.”

His face dropped. “What? How?”

“I _told_ you I’d fix everything,” she said smugly. “I got us bank accounts a month back. Got a dude to funnel the boss’ assets into them, all safe like, through about twenty different fake accounts. The cash we got from the gun deal was just extra. This entire cabin is like a quarter the price of my apartment rent - don’t sweat it.”

“You just…” He floundered. “How?”

“Dude - it’s done. We’re set, ok? Just don’t spend everything you got. I’m not bailing you out when you started with over a million dollars.”

He gripped the balcony railing, looking back out over the beach. “But that means…”

“Yeah?” she smiled.

“That means… we made it.”

“Yes. Yes we did,” she chuckled. “Told you we would. And now we’re free - no-one looking for us, no more gangs, guns, drugs, bosses - none of that. We’re free.”

“Free,” he muttered, his eyes losing focus.

“There’s only one problem,” she said.

“What?” he asked, turning to look at her across the divide of separate balconies.

“What do we do all day?” she grinned. “I might have to learn to swim.” She paused. “You know what? I’m going to get me an instructor - a cute one who does private lessons. And _then_ I’m gonna learn to surf.”

He laughed. “Why not?”

“What you gonna do all day?”

“Read some books, watch you learn to surf… Maybe… I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to learn to paint. Landscapes, you know.”

“Dude… you are always surprising me.”

He grinned. “I need to unpack. Then I need a shower. Then you and me are going to the best restaurant on the island and getting the biggest steak.”

“I heard that,” she nodded. “And maybe even pour one out for the DEA. I mean they did hand us nine hundred thousand dollars yesterday.”

He laughed. “Yeah - first mojito is for them.”

ooOoo

Riggs put a hand up and rang the doorbell. He cleared his throat, swaying to his right to see Wabash standing to attention, her hands behind her back. “Relax,” he hissed at her. “It’s not a formal evening.”

“I _am_ relaxed,” she said, surprised.

He smiled and opened his mouth - but the door opened. Trish looked out at them both. “Martin! Hi! Better delayed than never,” she grinned. She looked him up and down. “You look good,” she admitted, surprised. “Your eye - is it better now?”

His twin black eyes now fading yellows and greens, the patch over his eye had been removed to reveal a simple line of miniature steri-strips keeping a much-improved thin cut in his eyelid together. “Trish - hi,” he grinned. “Yeah - much better, thanks. This is Agent Emily Wabash. No doubt Rog has told you everything about her.”

“Some,” she said, bemused, putting her hands out. “Come in, both of you.” She pulled Riggs in and enveloped him in a big hug, before releasing him and looking at Wabash. “It’s good to meet you,” she said.

“Martin was right,” Wabash said, as Riggs closed the door. “He said you were stunningly beautiful.”

“Oh, er - well thank you,” Trish said graciously.

“Oh yeah - Emily has no filter,” Riggs grinned, throwing an arm round her shoulder and pulling her in. “She’s awesome.”

Wabash looked up from under his arm. “Thank you.”

Riggs let her go, slapping his hands together and rubbing - causing Trish to notice the bandage around his hand had also gone. “Now then - where’s Rog?” He walked off.

Trish looked at Wabash, and the bottle in her hand. “Is that for this evening?”

“It is,” Wabash said, offering it to her. “Martin said you would prefer something stronger, but I believed his answer to be the result of an ulterior motive, so I checked with your husband. He said _this_ wine was what you liked.”

Trish grinned, looking her face up and down with delight. “It is, thank you. And do we have you to thank for Martin turning up in a new shirt and smelling of a shower and fabric softener?”

“Undoubtedly,” she said. “I told him he had a choice; he could arrive here looking like an adult or he could stay home and miss out on the good food.”

Trish chuckled. “You are a treasure. Please, come this way. Martin said you would try any kind of food - is that right?”

“He is correct.”

They went into the dining room to find Murtaugh carrying food to the table. He looked up as he set down a plate. “Hey, Wabash,” he grinned. “Welcome to our home.”

“Under the circumstances, I think you should call me Emily.”

“Emily it is,” he smiled.

Riggs appeared from somewhere deep in the house, carrying small glasses. “So I don’t know if Rog told you but we’ve had a hell of a week at work,” he announced. “However, we’ve all survived and we got like ninety per cent of what we were aiming for, so… go team.” He put the glasses down.

Trish looked at him. “Roger can’t always tell me what’s happening at work, but I know when he’s having a hard week. I’m just glad all of you are ok and we’re all available for dinner tonight.” She paused, looking at Wabash. “Are you staying in L.A.?”

“No,” she said quietly. “I must return to Washington tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Riggs blurted, sounding hurt in a way that made Murtaugh and Trish share a surprised look. “But we were gonna compare sights and suppressors for your back-up handgun.”

“I know,” she said. “However… I have been recalled.”

“Oh.” Riggs scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Then… I suppose we’d better eat,” he added, subdued.

“Please, everyone sit,” Trish said, then caught Murtaugh’s eye. He shrugged as Riggs and Wabash took their seats, finding themselves next to each other.

“I was going to tell you,” Wabash said to Riggs.

“It’s fine,” he said with a cheerful smile.

“Don’t do that face at me. It’s not fine and I will make it up to you the next time I’m in L.A. Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you don’t care. You’re disappointed and you’re upset. But I _will_ make it up to you, Martin.”

“If you say so.”

“I said don’t do that,” she said, sternly.

He paused and glared at her. “Fine. I don’t like it. But we don’t have a choice here, do we?”

“Not at this time. But next month I can return for an entire week. We can compare handguns and accessories, and you can aid me in finding replacement gun oil. The brand I have been using has changed their formula and I don’t like it.”

“Oh,” he managed. He sniffed. “Yeah, ok.”

They both froze. And then, in perfect synchronisation, they looked up to see Trish and Murtaugh watching them. Trish’s smile widened. “I’ll get the roast out - Roger, help me with the plates, please.” She turned and left.

“I can assist you,” Wabash said. She got up, nodding to Murtaugh as she passed him.

Murtaugh sat slowly. “I am so glad you brought her.”

“Shut up, Rog,” he said wearily.

“No really - I like her,” Murtaugh said in surprise. “You thought I was joking?”

“Kinda.”

“Well I wasn’t. I’m serious, man. She’s fun when she’s telling you off,” he grinned. He looked behind him quickly, then leant closer to Riggs across the table. “And don’t tell Trish it was Emily who bought you that new shirt,” he whispered. “I told her I did.”

“You know Emily finds it hard to lie,” Riggs grinned. “How do you know she hasn’t _already_ told her?”

ooOoo

Murtaugh opened the front door and Wabash turned on the threshold. “Thank you for having us, Trish. I look forward to meeting you again. You are an intelligent conversationist with keen insight, and it has been agreeable to speak to someone smart for a change.”

Trish laughed, but Riggs pushed a hand into Wabash’s arm. “Hey, thanks,” he said.

“You have other strengths,” she said off-hand, making Trish laugh louder.

“Alright, you crazy kids,” Murtaugh chuckled. “Riggs - make sure you turn up to work tomorrow. Wabash - Emily. It’s been fun. You _definitely_ have to come to dinner every night you’re in town.”

“Thank you,” Wabash said. “I have your number, Trish, and I’ll inform you of any dates I am in town.”

“That would be easier than trying to get Martin to remember to text me,” she smiled.

“Now I’m afraid we must leave - Martin, you must give me a lift to my hotel. I have a flight in the morning.”

“Yeah,” he said, his shoulders slumping just slightly. “Well, thanks Trish - excellent menu as usual. Rog - you were here too, so I suppose we’re lucky nothing was burnt, but hey.”

“Get out of here,” Murtaugh grinned. “Go on, go. We’ll see you soon, Emily.”

She gave a wave and then turned and walked off down the path, toward Riggs’ truck parked at the kerb. Riggs watched her sadly for a moment. Then he turned smartly. “Thanks, Trish, Rog. See you.”

“Take care, Martin,” she called as he walked off.

They watched him get into the truck and Riggs start the engine. He gave a small wave and it pulled away.

Trish closed the door slowly. “Well I did not expect that,” she admitted. “But I like her.”

“Yeah,” Murtaugh sighed, going back into the dining room, heading for the empty plates to start collecting. “I wonder if she has a sister he could date.”

“Oh Rog leave him - he’s got a friend, a good one. Isn’t that enough for now?”

“Hey - he’s got me, you know.”

“You know what I meant. Now he has _two_ best friends in the world.”

“Yeah,” Murtaugh said with a smile. “Yeah, he does.”

ooOoo

Riggs stopped the truck. “Here we are, one fancy hotel.”

She opened her side door and got out, going round the back of the truck to retrieve a work bag. She stopped at the driver’s door. “I have coffee if you would like a drink before you go home.”

He sighed. “I probably shouldn’t. You’ve got a flight tomorrow, right? It wouldn’t be coffee; we’d end up drinking and you’ll miss your flight.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But there are plenty of flights. If I missed it there would be another in half an hour.”

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t think it’s a flexible thing you can postpone because you want to. You can’t, ok? It’s not fair and we don’t like it, but we can’t change it.”

She looked at her feet for a moment. Then she met his eyes. “Thank you, Martin. I feel like… I feel like if I ever fell out of a tree… you would catch me.”

“I wouldn’t need to. You’d do ok on your own.” He paused. “But I would.”

She smiled. “Thank you. Until next month, then. Do not forget.”

“Thanks for the laundry and the whiskey,” he grinned.

“If that’s all you need then you are easy to care for.”

He laughed. “That probably sums me up, yeah.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight, Emily.”

She nodded, then turned and went to the door. It opened for her and she walked in. Riggs watched her turn and stride toward the lifts. But then she paused and looked back. She gave a small wave.

He waved back. And then she was in the lift and gone.

He sighed, put the truck into gear, and checked his mirrors before he drove off.

The streetlamps went by but he didn’t see them. He made his way down the quiet streets, finding the coastal road on autopilot and turning down to the sand. He stopped by his trailer, putting the truck into Park and just listening to the engine for a long moment. Finally he cut the engine and got out, barely remembering to lock it before he sloped to the trailer and let himself in.

He stopped just inside, looking around. The carefully folded blankets on the end of the couch, the empty, clean table in front of it, the tidy kitchen sink and drainer. It all looked back at him until he studied the keys in his hand, wondering if he even sat down or went straight back out to the nearest bar.

He made them drop from his hand and instead went to the fridge. He opened it to find two six packs of beer had appeared as if from nowhere. He grinned and reached for one, unscrewing the lid and taking a long swig.

He finished two more before an idea struck him. He opened the cupboard under the sink and found a cardboard box. Putting the three empties in it, he opened the door to put them out on the sand. He paused as he saw lights on the road above. A car had stopped, someone getting out of the back door. As he watched, intrigued, he realised the person had something long and thin in their right hand. They paid the driver and made their way down to the sand.

Wabash passed his truck and came round to stand by his trailer door. “Hi.”

He grinned. “What you got there?”

She pulled the bag off the end of the long pole to reveal a garden rake. “For the glass.”

He looked at the box of empty beer bottles, then back at her. “Glass?”

“You once invited me to shoot beer bottles from the roof of this trailer. I declined on the grounds that it would leave dangerous glass on a public beach.” She shook the rake slightly. “So we shall clean up afterwards.”

He grinned. “Well I’m only three beers into twelve. You’ll have to help me create more empties.”

“Well of course.” She leant the rake against the side of the trailer, then looked at him. “Well? How do we do this?”

“I’ll get the beer. You grab two chairs from the back there and use the ladder over the rear window.”

She smiled. “I shall race you to the roof.”

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap. I hope this drew you out of the harsh reality of lockdown during this, our May 2020, and I hope some part of this made you smile.   
> Thanks for making it to the end. Without you, you reading readers who read, there's no point me writing!


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